


Night Vale also needs a doctor.

by AliceSH



Category: Sherlock (TV), Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: AU kind of, Angst, First fanfic I publish, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Male/Male, Mentions of other deppresed activities, Normal Welcome to nightvale oddities, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion, Sherlock goes in search of John, Smut on later chapters, Suicide Attempts, This is sad I guess?, Welcome to nightvale crossover, You Have Been Warned, be nice, john is depressed, people like nice people, probably, this is very stupid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:48:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceSH/pseuds/AliceSH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John couldn't cope with Sherlock's death, he's attempted suicide a variety of times; but this isn't the story of how they met once again (not really).<br/>It starts like that but negh.<br/>John recieves a strange purple letter in an even stranger envelope in which someone requests he moves out of Lodon to some place called nightvale and works at the hospital.<br/>As he doesn't have anything besides Sherlock's grave to tie him to London, he accepts and tries to live a new life but once entering Nightvale he forgets everything about his former life, he only remembers nightvale and nothing more.<br/>What occurs when Sherlock returns to a London with no John Watson in it?<br/>He goes and looks for him of course!<br/>This starts with Mycrofts POV cause reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Funerals are for the living

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is kind of a prologue/preface/ whatever.Also I /will/ change the title soon, or later, when I get inspiration on it.  
> And is my first fanfic as well, Id love to see some reviews or just whatever (I know what you're thinking, Im so great with words ain't I?)  
> Yeah, I know I've failed. blegh  
> Well, I hope you like it. I promise to update soon, as well!  
> And we start with Mycrofts POV because why the hell not? And as a friend just requested, this chapters title is "Mycrofts regret"  
> Enjoy!

Mycroft Holmes had always been an observant man, he could take control above anyone quickly and could either be noticed by everyone he wanted to be noticed by or be completely invisible, the only reason he would fail in anything was when his brother was involved. Sherlock had a way of causing problems for Mycroft with just his presence, as a kid Mycroft found it annoying, when he wanted to be unnoticed his brother would always appear and get everyone to look at Mycroft rather than himself just to go unnoticed on his own.

Yet, as he was more controlled than his younger brother he gave himself the task of always protecting him, even if his brother always pushed him away.

When a certain Doctor John Watson appeared Mycroft’s task was doubled, he was now obliged to protect not only Sherlock but John was well, as John had become a part of Sherlock's life, protecting him close by when Mycroft couldn’t, once John had reject his offer for spying on Sherlock, Mycroft knew that John was the only one that could break Sherlock’s walls.

He was the perfect companion for Sherlock; loyal, intelligent, brave, patient, warm, caring, and just had everything to protect Sherlock in Mycroft’s view, at the same time as Mycroft’s care was somehow ‘doubled’ it was also considerably weighed down, John would protect Sherlock in cases, John could control Sherlock’s emotions, John would make Sherlock more human.

John could do all that and more but when Moriarty came by, all of this suddenly became useless and irrelevant, Mycroft supposed that John was by now above cases, and apparently he was, but Mycroft had wished he wasn’t, if Sherlock hadn’t cared, if he wasn’t as human as he had become with John, if he hadn't started feeling the way he had started feeling then maybe he wouldn’t have jumped of a building.

Then maybe he would still have his brother to protect. Maybe he wouldn’t have lost his little brother in the hands of a psychopath but there was nothing he could do now.

His brother was dead and seven feet below earth; he was now bones and dust.

As everyone came to be eventually.

The funeral had been what one would considered “lovely”, lovely if it weren’t a funeral. John had arrived much earlier than anyone else and he and Mycroft had a small conversation, which surprisingly Mycroft was trying to keep afloat.

“It’s strange, normally you wouldn’t even talk to me if it weren’t convenient, Feeling regret Mycroft?” John asked suddenly gaining a gaze from Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed and responded “I will miss my dear brother.”

“Yes, I’ll miss him as well.” John responded and with that everything was quiet again.

Silence was better anyways, Mycroft thought as he and John stood alone in the quiet church.

“Do you think Sherlock would have actually liked having a funeral? A christian funeral above all?” John asked suddenly actually surprising Mycroft who had thought the conversation to be over.

“No,” Mycroft said actually thinking about it for the first time “Probably not, he wasn’t much of a religious man after all but mummy said she wanted a nice funeral, she’s the religious one in the family after all, Doctor Watson.”

“Ah. Yes, Mrs. Holmes.” John responded, changing topic way too quickly, in an attempt to have Mycroft's attention on him as required, or at least, that’s what Mycroft deduced.

“Lovely woman, really lovely.” John continued.

“You met her yesterday, right?” Mycroft asked as if he didn’t know already and wasn’t trying to make dreadful conversation.

“Yes. She asked me if I was Sherlock’s _partner._ ” John said and laughed a little pathetic laugh.

“Ah. Yes. Well, everyone enquired that, _all the time_ ” Mycroft said, giving John a little smile of his own hoping it would pass as an attempt to comfort the doctor.

Then there was silence again, and a tense air filled the church.

“I wish I would have been his _partner._ ” John broke the silence with what sounded like a strained whisper and gained yet again a surprising look from the elder Holmes, surprised although he already knew, surprised because he knew but didn’t expect John to confess when the man was already dead, surprised because he didn’t expect John to open up, not to _him_ at least.

“John **-** ” Mycroft was about to reassure the man when John interrupted him.

“I was a coward, I didn’t want to admit to myself that I had feelings towards him,” A hard sob came from the doctor and his voice sounded pain as he continued “I thought that being by his side was enough, just having him for myself. And taking care of him was enough.” he shivered “ But it wouldn’t ever be enough, I knew it, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. I was scared and now he’s gone, he’s gone.” John said and started sobbing completely.

_Broken._

 “John. You are no coward, you’re a strong brave man. You went to wa-”

“ **Who cares Mycroft!** ” The doctor suddenly exploded in anger.

“I went to war! I fought for the queen! I saved lives! I couldn't care less! I’d give it all up in a heartbeat to have him back!” John practically hissed out and suddenly he was on his feet, pacing, trying to calm his own nerves and tugging on his own hair in frustration.

“ _I shouted at him,_ ” John continued through sobs trying to calm himself.

“I told him that friends protect friends. I failed him. I couldn’t save him.” John said in a more quiet voice, almost a whisper, _a plea._

Mycroft couldn’t take the site before him, John Watson, army doctor, _a grown man_ ; sobbing and shouting nonsense as he hugged himself and tugged at his own hair, he was no longer John Watson, not really, he was but a shell of the man that once was.

Sherlock Holmes had broke John Watson, he couldn’t be fixed, not by Mycroft at least.

“John, please calm down.” Mycroft said assuring himself that it was okay, this was okay, John was okay, John _would_ be okay.

He had to protect John Watson, for his brother and for the man himself.

Mycroft got up from his seat and approached John gently, he pressed a hand on his back and hushed him silently.

“It’s okay John, it’s not your fault, you didn’t cause his death.” Mycroft said.

“It was not your battle and you did not loose.”

“I didn’t lose? Mycroft, I lost everything!” John shouted as he moved his hands in exasperation.

“John **-** ” Mycroft tried saying something but nothing came to his mind, there just wasn’t anything to be said.

It was true, John had lost everything, in a sentiment form that is.

Mycroft got closer to John and awkwardly hugged him and permitted the man to sob on his shoulder like he supposed a friend would and John did.

It was kind of comforting to Mycroft as well, helping John in such a horrid moment, he was sure this was probably the first and last time John would ever cry on his shoulder, and he was fine with it being like that.

After a few minutes that passed in comfortable silence they separated and more people appeared for the funeral, things went according to schedule and Mycroft was sure John was only thinking of how dull a funeral would have seemed to Sherlock, how boring even if it were his own.

Mycroft stayed throughout the whole thing, he even saw John as he gave his farewell to Sherlock and asked him to “not be dead”, once John disappeared and went back to Baker street, Mycroft approached his brothers grave, he stood there silently until he noticed a shadow moving in the distance and was distracted only by the sound of his phone vibrating, indicating a message.

He read it hesitantly.

_**Take care of him. Protect Him. Don’t let him break. Let him know in someway that I’ll come back. SH** _

Mycroft smiled down at the message, a small quick smile and responded.

_**We could at least have a decent conversation, seeing as you are so close, dear brother. MH** _

Mycroft responded and looked at the shadow, which he noticed sighed and started approaching him slowly.

“Seriously Mycroft, you take away the fun of being dramatic.” the shadow that now took the shape of Sherlock said.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be too dramatic then.” Mycroft responded, ignoring his brothers red and swollen eyes in order to keep the conversation going.

“So,” Mycroft said “You’re simply going to destroy Moriarty’s web and come back later?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock said and then sneered.

“And you’ll let John rot in Baker street?” Mycroft returned, smiling maliciously.

This isn’t how he had wanted to meet Sherlock once more, he supposed already that Sherlock was alive, but he rather expected their meeting to be different, surely John’s actions had been the ones to make Sherlock present himself.

He saw his brother wince at the mention of John and regretted his words slightly.

“You can take care of him.” Sherlock responded.

“Yes, I can, but I can not fix him, Sherlock.” Mycroft responded and glanced at his younger brother.

“No, that seems to be something that I must do.” Sherlock responded, surprising Mycroft as he sounded so mature, so very responsible.

That was what John Watson had created, a human that was so very human.

“But not yet, I have to take away Moriarty’s web first.” Sherlock said, and his voice sounded so regretful, so sad, it was nothing compared to what Mycroft expected his brother to be like.

That’s when he noticed that not only was John Watson broken but his brother as well.

They were as to pieces that needed each other to be complete, let it be romantically or not. They simply needed each other, it was in some sort of form, sick, two humans shouldn't relly on each other so fiercfully, he shouldn't have permitted his brother to atach himself to someone else in this way.

But there wasn't anything he could do about it anymore.

Anything but help his brother and protect John, ensure his safety and his well-being.

“I will help you.” Mycroft blurted out and gained a rather surprised look from Sherlock.

“It will make the time you’re away much less.” Sherlock gazed at Mycroft.

“Come on brother, don't look at me like that, you know you need help, and the less time you’re away the faster you’ll come back to John.”

Mycroft could see his brother expression change a few times as he thought of the possibilities and a way in which he could do all this without Mycroft's help before he resigned.

“Fine.” Sherlock said “But don’t expect me to thank you, I’ll consider it a compensation for having told Moriarty about me.” Sherlock responded and glared at his brother menacingly.

“Very well, as long as you let me help you.” Mycroft responded and ignored his brothers gaze as well as the pang of guilt that was rising in his chest.

“Very well, I’ll take my leave then.” Sherlock said a few moments later, when the sun was now disappearing and the lights of london were starting to take their moments of glory.

“I’ll text you with the information I have later.” Sherlock announced as he took a few steps away from Mycroft who simply stood looking at the cemetery, he looked like another one of the decorations in Sherlock's eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Mycroft blurted out before Sherlock took his leave and barely hear when Sherlock responded.

“I am as well.” before he disappeared into the shadows of the cemetery as if he never was there to start with.

Mycroft stood staring at the spot that Sherlock had occupied a few minutes before taking his leave as well.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The next few years were spent helping Sherlock destroy Moriarty’s web, as well as having regular visits with John and taking away sleep pills and a certain gun from the doctors grasp.

The first years were the most difficult ones, but the most difficult thing was that two years after Sherlock's death John Watson disappeared from Mycroft's radar with no clear signs except a visit to Sherlock's grave and a visit to Mycroft's office to inform that he would be leaving London.

The doctor wasn’t seen again, but Mycroft opted for keeping Sherlock in the dark until he had cleared Moriarty’s criminal web completely or he found John. That was three years after Sherlock’s supposed death.

He never really did find John, not until a close contact informed him that he was were they could not approach him

John Watson had escaped to Nightvale.

The only place Mycroft had no such power in and could simply not enter; not only because of its vague yet menacing governmet system or its strange activities, but because no one really knew where Nightvale was.

He would have to wait for Sherlock to solve this.

 

 


	2. A Purple Envelope With A Violet Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John recieves an interesting letter offering him a job, accepts and is encountered with a rather strange man that looks to much like Sherlock to be real, and as much as John knows, he might as well not exist or maybe its because of the sweet smell sorounding the flat.  
> He really can't know,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah.  
> I tried.  
> This is relativly short and for that I apologize.  
> Any error is mine and mine alone so feel free to point out any stupid thing I may have wrote.  
> And regardless of any errors I may have made (and the long time I took to post this, its because school ugh) I hope you enjoy it.  
> c:

John, as expected, had a difficult time grieving Sherlock.

The first seven months he visited Sherlock's grave daily and spoke to him about how boring his life had begun to be and how much he needed him back; he wrote poems and entire books about how much he missed him and how much he wanted him back, but literature couldn't bring Sherlock back.

John knew it perfectly.

The grieving also included a weekly visit from Mycroft which roamed from being on Tuesday to being every other day on Friday.

John was, surprisingly, beyond just "okay" with it, he liked Mycroft’s visits, Mycroft reminded him of Sherlock and had that posh presence to him that John had always liked. John enjoyed speaking to Mycroft especially when Myroft had bad days and started speaking arrogantly like only one certain consulting detective could, well apparently not only he could speak like that.

Sometimes he would even talk about a few of his problems with politicians, and god, did politicians seem to act like jealous immature teenagers; sometimes John noticed that Mycroft would enjoy the visits as well, and that was the moments in which he actually felt a little bit happy after Sherlock's death.

It didn't happen frequently, that John felt happy that is. The first year he attempted innumerable suicide attempts that all failed with the intervention of either Mycroft or Lestrade, that now (after all the visits from Mycroft) he knew were in fact shagging, well, in an “attempt at a lovely relationship” as Lestrade had called it rather strangely.

After two years at attempting to fix his life or kill himself to reunite with Sherlock in what could possibly be the after life and not hell, John Watson received a letter.

A rather strange letter as it had a purple envelope with all kind of strange eyes painted over it and surrounding it completely, the envelope simply read

“ ** _To Doctor John H. Watson_ ”** in the front.

It was rather strange as it had no address on its front, not any kind of address at all and it had appeared in his right jacket’s pocket one day that he returned from the hospital, he was rather doubting its providence and was hesitant about opening it.

 _Maybe it has poison in it_ _but people don’t kill like that anymore._ _Besides who cares if it does have poison after all right?_ John thought and then proceeded to open the envelope carefully as he sat in Sherlock’s chair back in 221b.

The letter within the envelope was even stranger, it was purple as well, but this one did not only have eyes painted around it but it also had tentacles drawn over it which looked so real they seemed to be moving, and maybe they were moving, John couldn't really figure it out.                          

He then proceeded to read the letter calmly.

**_Dear Doctor John Watson,_ **

It read in strange black ink that seemed like it would stick to the skin if touched.

 ** _It has been notified to us that you are in need of job, one that pays better than your actual job. A full time job to keep your thoughts from straying into unwanted depths of feeling and sorrow._**                                                                                                      

John reread the first few lines and stared at the letter slightly confused. He could almost swear that he could hear a deep voice reading it to him in a nonchalant narrator voice, _like the people in radio shows_ , his mind supplied.

Well, yes, he was indeed looking for a job but he hadn't told anyone besides Sarah and Lestrade and well, Mycroft probably already knew so he hadn't told him about it. Besides who would write something like “ _to keep you from straying into thoughts of feeling and sorrow_ ”? John was very confused and a slightly bit disturbed by the fact that someone knew all this about him.                                                                                                

He kept reading the letter.  

**_We, the citizens of Night Vale, are in the look of a doctor for the new hospital that appeared in town yesterday. It already has nurses, and other doctor stuff, it is though, in need of a good doctor, and as we have heard wonderful things about you from Carlos, our dear scientist Carlos._ **

John stopped then to think about what he had just read and tried to shake off the deep voice that seemed to be narrating the letter for him in his head.

 _Carlos?_ Where had he heard that name? It rang a bell, and it rang it hard but he couldn't quite place it.                                                                    

He went through the category of people he had met through his time in the war. His mind straying into thoughts about the high sun burning the skin without quite tearing it apart, he remembered a young scientist then, a young man with fantastic hair (which even he admitted was quite breathtaking) and a lab coat which he kept mentioning was a “war lab coat”, his name finally came to his head.

 _Oh, so that's Carlos_ , John remembered him being a young scientist that for one reason or the other was in the camps with them, saying that “War was a very sciencey thing and needed to be tested upon”, he actually liked Carlos he was a rare guy but fun to be around.                                              

He had saved Carlos from dying in the heat a great number of times and would always save him when in problems.     

He suddenly wondered why he hadn't remembered him immediately, the answer though was obvious, because of Sherlock, he couldn't remember half the people he knew because of the madman that entered his life as dramatically as he left it, and also, Carlos had disappeared from the camp as strangely as he had appeared in it.

He started reading again, this time with a little bit more joy in him.

**_Our dear scientist Carlos, he has given us wonderful references about you, and of course, we don’t doubt one word Carlos says._ Ever. **

**_We have made a council meeting and it appears that we have gotten permission for you to be admitted in the hospital as our new doctor, we would love your presence and as of now we only need your confirmation, with just that you will be placed in one of Night Vale's new flats and working in the instant. We would love to have you in Night vale._ **

**_It would be an honor for us that you accept immediately._ **

**_To confirm to our proposition we only need you to erase one of the tentacles drawn in the envelope._ **

**_Also, once you confirm we will send someone over to pick you up. Be wise Doctor Watson._ **

**_PS: Be careful, the tentacles don't like being touched._**

 

 

**_Sincerely yours and expecting you to accept,_ **

**_\- Nightvale radio Host, Cecil Palmer_ **

John then looked at the paper slightly baffled, _just erase one of the tentacles and they would know he confirmed?_ like hell he would believe this, it was probably just some strange joke from some sick people, but something in his head, that he hoped wasn’t that deep nonchalant male voice that had seemed to start narrating in his head, was telling him that it wasn’t a joke.

He had to give it some thought. And so he did.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the third day of receiving the letter John had decided that he would accept that strange letter’s proposition. Besides if it was, indeed, some strange joke there couldn't be any repercussion over erasing just one tentacle of the strange letter.

Could there be?

He decided that the first thing he had to do was inform Mycroft.                                                                                                                        

That afternoon he made his bags, put on his most suited clothing and went to Mycroft’s to inform him directly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“ _Pardon me?_ ” Mycroft asked, his voice outsandingly surprised.

“I said that I will be leaving London to work in some far away town. They are in need of a doctor and I have already been accepted as such.” John responded trying hard not to laugh at Mycroft’s comically surprised expression.

“No.” Mycroft responded quickly readjusting his surprised expression to be that of a very serious one.

“What? What do you mean no!? I can do as I please, Mycroft.” John said and scoffed at Mycroft, annoyed that suddenly the elder Holmes felt like he could control John’s life beyond that of London, and England as a matter of fact.

“I said, No. John, you must remain in London until-” The elder Holmes cut himself off before continuing as if he suddenly remembered that there was something in that line he wasn’t supposed to mention, and scoffed at himself as if he had noticed that he had lowered his barriers around John so much that he was actually surprised he could have made such an error.

John simply gazed at him.

“Until?” he enquired.

“Until you become more stable.” Mycroft responded calmly as if he hadn’t just choked in his own words.

“Yes. Of course.” John narrowed his eyes and stared for a while. “You can’t control my life Mycroft and you can’t possibly think that because you couldn’t save his life you must make mine better.” John responded rather harshly gaining a gaze from Mycroft.

“No, John. I am not trying to make your life better, I’m just keeping you alive seeing that you have become incapable of doing so on your own, how am I to avoid you from putting a gun to your temple if you're in some far away town?” Mycroft responded harshly, John simply glared at him.

“I would have a work, a better work than the one I have now.” John responded.

“It would distract me, besides I stopped having nightmares a long time ago-” John lied.

“No, you have not stopped having nightmares John, you simply stopped sleeping a long time ago.” Mycroft cut him off with words he knew would affect the ex-army doctor, who now looked so very tired; with bags under his eyes, his weight had also decreased considerably and the way he spoke was no longer soft or angry, it was just there, monotone and existing barely, Mycroft was not known to be a sentimental man but every time he laid eyes on John Watson his heart would break a little bit more each time, the guilt consumed him little by little.

His brother had done this to John of course he felt _some_ remorse.

“Mycroft,” John said suddenly in a voice that sounded, surprisingly, both menacing and incredibly deep for the man.

“I will do as I please and at the moment what I please is to move into that far away town, have a stable work and a nice home home and with luck get married and have a reasonably normal life.” John finished, as he got up from the chair he had been occupying since he started speaking with Mycroft and headed towards the door.

“But you do not want a normal life, Doctor Watson, you crave adrenaline and disaster, you can not possibly live a normal life and be happy, you need something that resembles destruction and excitement, it's what drove you to becoming a soldier and Sherlock’s friend.” Mycroft said as John took his leave.

“Yes,” John said before opening the door.

 _“And both left me broken.”_ He almost whispered before closing the door and leaving a guilty Mycroft behind him.

John wouldn’t open the door to Mycroft’s office for years to come after that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John returned to 221b Baker street after a few hours of walking and roaming around London for what would probably be the last time, he knew that Mycroft had told him that he mustn't leave, but he was also very excited to see how he’d be able to stop him, because he wouldn’t and if he tried he would probably fail, John was excited to think about Mycroft failing in something, showing that he's not as weak as they think him to be.

It would be hilarious.

John took the stairs slowly and one by one as it caused him pain to even look at them, already inside 221b he sat in Sherlock’s chair, as it was still Sherlock’s chair, and looked at the letter that had been stuffed in his right pocket all day, he had intended to show it to Mycroft but as the government official had been incredibly harsh about the idea of moving out of London, John didn’t even attempt to show it to him.

He read the letter again, convincing himself that it was for the best, he had to move on with his life, and what better way to do it that moving to a new town? Having a new job? A whole new life given to him in a silver plate.

It was far too unrealistic to be true, thus, the reason John couldn’t entirely believe the contents of the letter.

John looked at 221b.

The living room was uncharastically clean and the sight of it pained him, it had all of Sherlock's things in it, and John had been reluctant of cleaning so he hadn’t cleaned, it had been Mrs Hudson who had done the atrocious deed. Gaining for herself an unresponsive John Watson for at least a week.

John didn’t want to treat the old woman harshly but the cleaning had made him so much more aware of Sherlocks absence that he had locked himself in his room to just stare at the ceiling, not sleeping, not eating, bearly thinking, like one of the corpses that he had seen so many times before; bleeding out slowly with not much more light in them, pale and unresponsive.

Just like a dead man.

When he spotted Sherlock’s violin that was, and always had been, in the same place since Sherlock was alive he decided to take it, and so he did, he looked a the neck and fingerboard, it was a beautiful violin, a stradivarius John knew it to be, such a beautiful instrument for an equally gorgeous man.

It made him feel melancholic and strangely happy.

There were still parts of Sherlock in this world, he would never be forgotten, not by John or Mrs Hudson, not by Mycroft or Lestrade, not by the people he saved, not by the world.

He would always be the worlds only consulting detective and the brightest man to ever appear in John’s life.

The only man John ever loved.

John had already regretted not telling Sherlock his feelings for a long time after Sherlock's death, but he supposed the man already knew them and simply chose to ignore them in hope of not damaging their friendship.                                                                                                                  

He liked believing that Sherlock knew how much he loved him before falling and not that he was fine alone.

As long as the memory of Sherlock existed the man was not entirely dead, John liked thinking of his death that way in a form of making his sorrow less, in some occasions like this one, it worked.

He felt dizzy sitting in Sherlock's chair but he did not move instead he gripped the letter a bit more as he weighed his options.

He thought of the work proposal as an opportunity, an opportunity to move on and have a new life.

The only thought that overcame his mind was that he had to take this opportunity because it could be the last one he would get.                              

So he took the letter, read it again a few times, took a few minutes to look for a pencil that actually had an eraser and _finally_ , simply stared at the letter once again doubting its contents.

It was strange, John thought, he felt that he needed to do it, he knew that it was a good thing but he also felt as if it wasn’t exactly the right thing to do; he didn’t want to leave 221b, not really, but his life had become too unhealthy for his own good and a change of scenery would make everything better.

So it was decided.

John finally gathered all his thoughts and pressed the eraser against the paper; his hand was shaking as he roughly pressed the eraser against one of the smallest tentacles drawn on the right upper corner of the sickly purple paper, he felt as if the room was too warm as he did so, he felt as if his his heart and other internal organs were becoming far too big for his insides and as if he was about to burst because the emotions inside him as he erased that one tentacle of sticky black ink (which he wondered how the hell he was able to erase with a simple pencil eraser) were just too much and he needed air, just _air_.

**_Air._ **

In that moment John left out a long heavy breath that he hadn’t noticed he was holding in and started panting furiously as if he had just run miles and miles under the radiating sun, he kept still and wondered what would happen once he finished erasing the damn tentacle that seemed to move slowly under the rubber.

As he finished erasing the tentacle after what seemed to be hours if not years of panting and diminished intents on controlling himself John finally stared down at the letter, rereading it and stopping at the _PS. Be careful, the tentacles don’t like to be touched._

He wondered what that meant.

It scared him not to now, especially because seconds after finally calming himself the tentacles _actually_ moved.

At first they just crawled on the paper slowly as if testing their movements, barely visible if you weren’t expecting to see it or had a very good eyesight, which John didn’t exactly posses.

They started slowly emerging from the paper frame one at a time as if they were crossing a portal or a mirror.                                                        

To John it all seemed like a trick of his mind, a mirage of excitement, so he simply stared baffled at the sight and did not move, As frightened as one should feel when confronted with supposedly un-moving, purple, sticky, freakishly long tentacles that now move and rome through your living room and come out of also supposedly un-animated sickly purple paper as one should feel, John did not feel frightened at all.

The tentacles made him feel somewhat calm.

Besides most were just moving inside the paper, unable to escape the purple paper and moving here and there in a strange way although they seemed to be trying to get out but each time they seemed to get closer it also appeared that they crashed against something, like trying to go through a mirror, while that others roamed around the living room touching everything they could touch, reacting towards everything they found close.

To John they seemed to be like a blind man’s arms, trying to decipher where to go and what to touch, some would try to get a hold of him but he would dodge them with ease.

They appeared to be moving with no exact purpose, they did not have a sense of direction and apparently could not see as they didn't do anything besides crawl around the room with no aim or reason.

John obviously didn’t know what to do, he figured it had to be an illusion that his head was showing him, he thought that at last he was becoming insane, _it took its while though_ , he let the pandemonium that was occurring in his living room alone and directed himself towards the kitchen.        

He definitely needed tea if he was turning insane.

He put the kettle on and went to the fridge to grab the milk, sadly there was none.

He quickly went upstairs to his own room to grab a suitable jumper and clean himself up a little.

Normally he wouldn’t care how he appeared to the outside world but he felt strangely happy today, it probably had to do with the gigantic tentacles crawling around in his living room but he figured that it was just the adrenaline of seeing something incredible happen before him, albeit it not being real it was still quite fascinating.

He was about to open the door and leave the flat when one of the tentacles yanked his hand forcefully from the door knob.

“Shit.”

The tentacle that was touching him felt as if it were burning him, he quickly drew back and noticed that the tentacle let go of him once he had stopped all contact with the doorknob.

He felt a shiver down his spine.

**Things that don’t exist can't harm you.**

_**Imaginary things can’t harm you.** _

So there was only one thing that was true to be told.

“ _They're real._ ” John said out loud, his voice low, almost a whisper, he felt the need to say it out loud to acknowledge that he wasn’t entirely insane.

He felt something down his spine and shivered once he noticed that it was one of the larger tentacles.

It was a slow, tentative, almost sweet touch that sent shivers throughout all of his body.

It traced his back a few times before drawing back completely and continued to inspect the room with the other tentacles.                    

He couldn’t really go out and buy milk now, could he?                                                                                                                                          

He took his jacket of, he calmly went to the living room and sat on his couch, the one across Sherlock’s, the one placed just in front of the letter and the primary and only source from which the tentacles were coming out from.

Once he was sitting comfortably enough he picked up a book that was placed neatly at the foot of his chair along with many papers and other books that the tentacles had started moving and throwing around once they noticed they could, he looked at the book, _The Call of Cthulhu_ , how fitting he thought as he opened the book, his bookmark just where he had left it some days ago when he had picked the book from one of Sherlock’s shelfs, he hadn't expected to see a fiction book in one of Sherlock's collections but he figured that it had probably been for some sort of case, he then started calmly reading as if the tentacles weren’t there at all, as if it were an everyday occurrence.

A few chapters and hours later, John got extremely bored.

He put the book down and started thinking about the tentacles.

_Where had they come from? What did they want? Why did they appear?_

He stared at the letter that was close to him, but he could not read the words because the tentacles covered the whole purple paper from right down corner to upper left corner, he noticed that the tentacles just moved around, they did him no harm.

He wondered if he should interact with them but decided against it, instead he headed towards the window and stared vacantly at the bystanders. Bastards, John thought, living their lives because they can, not having lost the only thing they want or need, being able to live their lives as happy consumers.

_Bloody lucky bastards._

John looked out the window, the streets were vibrating with humans moving from one place to the other, bickering about their lives and just moving about as if there wasn’t a problem in the world, John came to loathe how simple a life could be, especially his own.

Suddenly, he felt the room getting colder and the sound from the outside that served as background noise was no longer filling the room, it was silent and cold, and a sweet smell that was almost completely intoxicating started surrounding the room.

But John kept looking out the window, he felt scared of turning around because the background noise was replaced by that of steps, small, tentative steps that seemed to get closer to him by the second.

John froze immediately.

All of a sudden the steps stopped, but John knew that whomever it was was just behind him, abruptly he felt something go down his back, not slithering or sneaking into him like the tentacles, it was something with extensions... _a hand._

John started to tremble as he felt the movement, _someone_ , someone was standing behind him, he felt the hand stop in the middle of his back for a moment before going up slowly until finally resting on his shoulder.

“ **Turn around.** ” A rough deep voice said behind him, it was so familiar yet so different, it sounded so much like Sherlock's voice but it wasn't, no it couldn’t be, it was too deep and rough.

John did not turn around but did stop to tremble, the voice somehow calmed him immensely.

“ **John, turn around**.” the voice said but this time it was harsher, an order, John noted.

This time John complied, turning around slowly, feeling the hand on his shoulder adjust so that it could remain where it was, he didn’t know what he was expecting to see but surely it wasn’t what he did see.

The man that was standing before him looked so much like Sherlock Holmes that it was quite frightening, and what was more frightening was that John somehow just knew that it was not, in fact, Sherlock Holmes.

The man was taller than Sherlock by a few inches, his hair was longer, messier, darker, his eyes were not the bright color Sherlock’s where, they stayed a dull dark shade of grey, his lips twisted awkwardly into what John assumed was supposed to be a smile but looked more like a twisted grin, he was lankier, his back bent over so that he was at the same height as John, and what no one could miss to differentiate him from Sherlock Holmes was that long, purple, slimy tentacles of all kinds of sizes and lengths seemed to be coming out of his back.

Slowly the hand that was on John’s shoulder started moving towards his arm, slowly but confidently placing itself on John’s wrist, John tried to look away, trying to make some sense to what he was seeing, but opposite of the slow sweetness of the movement from the man’s hand from his shoulder to his wrist the man opposed himself as he brutally yanked John’s hand towards him, forcing John to look directly at the man’s eyes, not permitting him to avoid the gaze that was set on him.

“Wh-Who are you?” John asked, his voice low, almost a whisper and trembling slightly.

“ **Oh, John.** ” The man responded, his voice still deep and rough but somehow managing to sound sweet at the same time.

“He left you. Didn’t he?" the man asked but John did not respond just finding himself capable of staring in both confusion and something that represented awe.

“It’s not your fault you know?” the man continued as he slowly edged John towards him, starting to surround him slowly with the tentacles knowing that John was too confused and dazed to notice.

“I was starting to think you’d decline my offer.” The man said as his hand moved towards John’s head and started leisurely patting his hair.

“But of course you couldn't. You were born to be mine, John.” The man said as he embraced John with his own hands and rested his chin on his hair, the tentacles embracing them as well.

John couldn’t move, not that he actually tried, but there was just something, _something_ , that didn’t permit him to move.

He couldn’t understand what the man was saying or why he was saying it but he just couldn’t move, the smell around them had become even more intoxicating and he felt extremely drowsy, so he let himself be embraced and settled for feeling the warmth that radiated from the man.

“You’re coming with me aren’t you, Johnny? Mine as you are.” The man said as he started nuzzling John’s neck possessively, his eyes seemed to glow now but rather than becoming brighter they seemed to become darker.

John could only whine in response, all of the emotions that he was feeling suddenly felt too much, the confusion was just too much, all the things mixed with the sweet smell and warmth coming out of the man were just too much and John found himself closing his eyes slowly and resting his body slowly on to the man.

“I’ll take you away from here. You don’t want to be here.” The man said and John slumped even more onto him, nuzzling slightly and clenching his hands around the mans suit.

 _Even in that he looks like the bloody bastard_ , John thought, _of course only something from my head would make him come on to me._

“I’m not in your head John.” The man said as if he had read John’s mind, which for all John knew, he probably had.

“I’m real, as real as you, and I’m not Sherlock.” The man said, his voice becoming somewhat sad by the end of it.

“My name’s Sherrinford, I’m from Night Vale. We met in Afghanistan, remember? I was with Carlos, that’s when I saw you and the only thought that came to me was that I wanted you and you had to be mine.”

John tried to straighten himself and look at the man before him but he found his limbs were like jelly and only managed to slump even further on to him, he didn’t know what he was supposed to say anyway.

_Oh, I don’t remember you and I don’t love you because I have no bloody idea who the hell you are, in fact, the only person I ever found myself completely loving is sodding Sherlock Holmes who is now dead and wouldn’t have ever loved me anyways but I want to stay embraced by you because it’s warm and you seem half interesting._

“uhmmmph…” Came his response instead, which obviously lacked the sarcasm he had used in his head.

“I couldn’t have you then though, I had to go back to Night Vale, and then when I came back you were with that _**man**_.” The last word was spat out as if it were venom.

“But now the man is gone.” He said with more glee.

“Now you can be all mine and no one can interfere, you accepted the move so there’s nothing wrong with this.” The man said and John could feel him smiling against his neck before darkness and waves of sleep started attacking him.

Somehow John found himself having a fight in his head, one part of him wanted to stay in the warm touch of the man standing before him, let him control everyone of his senses and take him wherever he wanted to take him as long as he could feel as numb as he was at that exact moment but another part of him was screaming for him to simply _run,_ just run away and never turn back, his head kept screaming **RUN, ESCAPE, DANGER,** but his body was numb and comfortable and sent him wages of comfortable warmth.

“Now sleep, John.” The man said, his embrace somehow becoming warmer as John fell limp on him.

“You’ll certainly need it.” The man sniggered quietly as John started falling asleep slowly.

His eyelids becoming heavy, his body giving into numbness and his mind drifting into blissful sleep.

The only thing he could think at that precise moment was Sherlock, _Sherlock,_ just Sherlock, ranting over and over again almost as a distress call.

“It’s okay, you won't remember that mean man ever again. Only Me.” the man cooed silently as John fell limp in his arms, restless and with no more consciousness left or will to fight against the impulse of his mind.

The last words he heard before drifting into the darkness of his mind and a blissful dreamless sleep were “ **I love you, John.** ” and with that the world turned dark and the only remains of the life of John Watson were a blog, a purple envelope with a blank letter, a variety of clothing that revolved mostly around jumpers, past articles of him in the newspaper, a duffle bag, an abandoned cane, old mates in the army, and the fact that he once lived with Sherlock Holmes.

That remained and nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped you enjoyed it and I promise to update much sooner than this, I'm writing as time goes by so I have to get inspired to actually write so it becomes difficult to write sometimes.  
> Sorry and as I said before feel free to point out any mistake you found!  
> Till' next time. Bye bye~


	3. In Non-real Dreams We Lay Separated in Cages.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up in an unknown place and just wants to sleep once and for all, wants to forget and remember all at the same time.
> 
> Sherlock falls asleep and wants to wake up but doesn't.
> 
> (In other words; I have no idea how to describe this chapter. Its just...weird)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, so sorry this took so long.  
> I hope you enjoy it though, and again I am so so so so sorry! Its just....so many things have been going on around me and its just so frustrating, and testing and my boyfriend left me and this old man bought me a book (which was actually pretty cool) and just ugh, the world needs to stop for three minutes so I can actually start writing without remembering that there's something else I have to do that I don't deem more important but other people do and just UGH.  
> I am so sorry.

_**Do you wanna feel pain in the most radical of ways?** _

_**When he awoke.** _

 

 

John couldn't tell anyone how much time he had spent sleeping, nor where he had awoken exactly and if he were forced to reply he would most probably stare and gape at them confused because he had no correct response to it at all.

He awoke to darkness, that as much he could say, his back hurt like he had slept in a cold hard rock for what seemed millions of years, and there was nothing surrounding him. He couldn't exactly explain if the last statement was literal or not as it was pitch dark and as much as he waved his hands around him he couldn't find anything to touch or help him find his sense of direction.

No wall, no furniture, no bed, only the floor below him that felt rough under his palms.

He couldn't get up from his place either, he felt as if something was forcing him to stay on his knees.

_Where am I?_

His head was pounding horribly, it felt as if he were hungover or something had sucked the energy out of his body.

Thus, the reason he couldn't stand up.

He felt dizzy so decided that staying on the ground for a few more minutes wouldn't cause him any inconvenience in the slightest.

That’s when everything that had occurred some time earlier came to his head.

He groaned as his head pounded with the sudden memories that flooded his mind.

_God, what the hell was all that?_

Had he really just gone around with life after bloody tentacles started coming out of a sodding piece of paper?

Had he really met a man yesterday?

_What the hell is wrong with me?_ John thought as he tried to get up and failed miserably, falling to his feet almost immediately after attempting to hoist himself up.

The darkness of the room was almost invigorating, he felt as if he couldn't breath and his muscles were for no apparent reason, sore and felt like jelly.

 

Suddenly in the midst of darkness came a voice, a roar, a slow whisper of a song.

“ _ **In a dark night,**_ ” it sung in a deep, rough, baritone voice.

A voice that just seemed to scream wrong.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong, WRONG!_

_Wrong pitch, wrong vibrato, wrong deepness. WRONG!_

**“He thought the world was coming to an end.”**

And with that, as if it were an enchantment, the room started shaking as if in a frenzy and the floor started to crack in what John supposed were it’s corners, he wanted to get up, find control of himself, but he found that his body was numb.

**“That time wouldn't pass.”**  it kept singing slowly as the room slowly descended into madness.

With the roof breaking as if it were glass, mirroring the cracks and creases of the floor, the walls looked as if they were being peeled down and the room seemed to be outlined by white chalk, the room filling itself with tentative and sweet aromas.

**“And that his soul was spent.”**

This time the room seemed to roar as the roof started falling, crashing below as if it were delicate glass.

John still found himself unable to move, he felt powerless and useless, he couldn't save his own life if human life depended on it at the moment.

_Move_ , he ordered himself, immediately regretting it as he felt a pang of cold hit him hard and pass through him like millions of small knifes, as if it were telling him, _don’t think, its not convenient._

**“He’s rotting.”**  The voice sung and John felt fear course through him as the roof started falling apart around him, so many shreds of it falling terribly close to himself, some cutting him slightly when crashing.

The cuts, as small as some were, stung horribly and left a feeling of being burnt alive.

  
**“And he’s rotting, more and more.”**

This time John was able to move, even if it were a little bit, he covered his face from the shreds falling close to him, letting only his arms and part of his back take the deepest cuts and groaned, he disliked the voice that was speaking, it was so rough and deep, _so wrong_ , like a fake imitation of Sherlock.

He absolutely despised it.

He hated the voice that was so wrong, he hated what it was singing and most of all he hated not knowing what was happening.

**“It started dripping some time ago, the blood shed, so it won’t ever become dry.”**  the voice sang sweetly.

That’s when John realized, he had heard those words before, they had been said so him so many times before in Afghanistan.

The realization hit him like a million bricks.

_The voice was mocking him._

 

The room started whirling and moving as if it had life, leaving John to try to hold himself in place, having a very difficult time as he couldn't really move away, he remembered that movie where a girl was taken by a tornado and taken some stray place away from home, but the thought was quickly removed from his mind when a horrible pain spread through his forearm causing him to cringe in pain, he looked up and noticed that one of the parts of the roof parts had cut him deeply landing by his side, John noticed that the roof was in fact, glass, he couldn't see blue sky through the hole, only more darkness and that made him feel as if he were about to cry.

**“He only waits for the moment when he will be taken and buried underground.”**

If he was going to die he had thought that it would be seeing the sky, the same he had imagined when he was in Afghanistan and a bullet had pierced his shoulder.

He wanted to see his eyes again, too, those beautiful orbs that changed color so lively.

He wanted-

_“Sherlock.”_ John whispered, his voice hoarse and dry, it hurt to speak but he called Sherlock’s name anyways used it as a distress call.

He felt like crying, he was losing blood from his arm quickly and would soon die from blood loss.

It would be pathetic to die from blood loss in some dark place alone.

Would anyone even notice his disappearance?

**“Happy because he no longer will be, and will disappear,”** This time the voice was accompanied by the sound of footsteps that came from apparently everywhere and nowhere at all.

They sounded faint, slowly coming closer, creeping into the darkness of the broken and wrecked room.

John couldn't understand from where the steps could come, by then the room had become debris and torn parts, the only few places remaining walkable being where John himself was trying to maintain balance and a few patches of floor spread around, floating over what appeared to be thin air for the ground seemed to end with no deep attachment to ground or earth.

**“In a dark night.”** This time the voice sounded less rough and became mocking with its end.

John tried to move himself away from the steps that sounded so close to him yet he couldn't’ see anyone, it terrified him and excited him at the same time, he applied pressure to his wound in an attempt to stop the blood loss and stared at the horizon that used to be a room.

  
He noticed a blurry figure moving slowly far away, much further away than what the room permitted him to see.

He had gotten used to the darkness by now but could not but see a strange fuzzy figure that appeared to be swinging back and forth slowly.

Suddenly, there was silence.

Deep, penetrating, terrifying silence that wasn't there before.

The voice had stopped singing and the steps were no longer heard.

And John felt terribly alone, so terribly alone and horrified that he couldn't avoid the trembling fear that overcame him so quickly.

He felt air leave his lungs slowly and started to tremble.

It was cold, as cold as it had been when he had encountered the man back in 221b.

The same intoxicating sweet smell was parading around the room and a violet fog seemed to spread itself around the room making John feel dizzy just by looking at it or maybe, maybe _just maybe_ it was the blood loss that made him feel dizzy, he couldn't really tell.

The sweet smell overcame him quickly and he felt the tension leave his body slowly, as if the smell was so incredibly sweet that it could calm him which it obviously did.

But he still felt himself rigid and his mind couldn't calm itself enough, he was so focused on the smell and trying to stop the blood from pumping furiously out of his arm that he didn't notice that the figure had gotten closer to him nor had he noticed that the steps had started resounding around the room once more.

Maybe, it would have been better if he did notice it but maybe it was just right for him not to.

Nobody can be certain.

The one thing that is, in fact certain, is that when he did see the figure it was far too late to escape from it or attempt to stop it.

For it was already standing but a few steps away from him.

 

_**“Oh, Johnny, such will you have.** ”_ the figure said when it noticed that it would not have John’s attention if it did not make itself present.

John jerked up at the sound of a deep voice and stared startled at the figure before him.

_It looked so much like him._

The figure was that of a man, a man that resembled Sherlock Holmes almost perfectly, it was the same man that John had seen back in 221B but he looked, somehow, different.

He had a dark aura to him that he did not have before, his eyes were a lifeless grey, he was much, much taller than before, making him have to bend awkwardly to tower over John and he was slimmer, making the awkward bend even stranger.

His arms were so long that they almost reached the ground and bent upward at the intersection between hand and arm making him look like some surreal doll from the Victorian era, he was wearing a dark suit that looked as if it belonged to a mourning man attending a funeral or the deceased himself.

The man smiled when John looked at him, his teeth were white and crooked, they all looked like canines and filled his mouth from left to right, his smile was twisted and looked more like a grimace, it sent chills down John’s spine.

“ _Wh-Who…?_ ” John started but his voice was dry, hoarse and much to silent to be heard even in the horrid silence that filled the room albeit it being torn apart from what seemed to be reality.

That’s when it occurred to John that the shattered roof that looked like a mirror did no noise when falling nor did he himself make a noise when the shattered glass tore his forearm.

Why was everything so silent?

**“Who I am does not matter,”** The deep voice responded and John was surprised that it had been capable of hearing him.

**“What matters here and at this moment is only you, Johnny.”**

John kept his head straight and looked at the man, or ….thing in the eyes.

He looked at those soulless grey eyes that so foully tried to imitate those of his dead friend and most loved human being.

He imagined how Sherlock's eyes would look now, would they look as soulless as those of the man staring at him? Would they regress to that soulless color in death and mock him with their perplexed existence and non-colorful appearance of terrifying death?

He wanted to speak with the man, _it does matter,_ he wanted to say _, I don't know who you are or what you want or why you look at me as prey but I want to know and I want it to stop._

**“You erased the tentacle, you accepted the deal, now I get to have you for my own.”** the man’s voice sound was slightly high-pitched and John had the terrible realization that the man was excited, _why was the man excited? What the hell had he signed himself into with just erasing a damned tentacle?_

**“Ummm…”** the man hummed, his eyes going glossy and his gaze becoming predatory and a slight hint of annoyance overcame his voice. “

**We do have to do something about that man though,”** the man nodded to himself and placed one of his hands over his chin in a typical _I-have-taken-a-decision sense._

He then turned again to look at John who was still staring at him, John’s eyes expressing anger and loathe, _how dare you,_ thought John, _how dare you think that you can just barge in here, looking so falsely like him, imitating his movements with such false grace, how dare you even try to grab onto his perfect hitch and masked face, how dare you even attempt to try?_

The man’s eyes seemed to glow with something resembling anger and his nostrils flared out.

**“See John?”** the man asked as he started getting even closer, standing just in front of John whom was still maintaining his position on the ground, looking defiantly up at the man.

**“This is why he can’t stay in your head!”** the man roared as he kicked John in the chin in blind anger, the hit made John arch backwards slightly and blood started sputtering from his mouth but he kept his stare steady upon the man and against his aching body that begged him to roll onto his side and permit him to rest he maintained still his position of defiance.

**“If he stays in your head you won’t be able to believe in me!”** the man roared once more, this time hitting John until he was forced to fall onto his side but John did not feel the pain radiating from the man’s foot or his bleeding body.

He felt nothing but hate.

**“The illusion won't be complete!”** Now the man was towering over him, sending blow after blow with one foot, kicking and stomping whatever part of John that he could while that John covered his face in an attempt to salvage himself from any damage in his face, the only thought coming that of him thinking that if the man kicked his face he wouldn't be able to keep staring at him with loathe, which seemed to be the thing that mostly ticked him of.

The man kept stomping on John as he continued **“Don't you see, John?”** the man kept speaking **“Don't you see that I love you?”** the man said, and John wanted to laugh.

_Well you're pretty good at showing it mate,_  John wanted to say.

**“That I want nothing but the best for you and I?”** the man kept speaking as he delivered kick after kick all around John who could barely cover himself.

 

When the man finally stopped John was panting furiously, his breath came in shallow breaths and there was blood all over his body, from his arms that had been cut with the shards of glass still falling from the ceiling, to his face where the man had just kicked, to his lower body where the man had kept kicking him furiously;  he was sure that more than a few bones were broken and that he was internally  bleeding (besides the wound on his forearm which somehow deemed itself unimportant).

But he just couldn't bring himself to care.

The man stood above him, he arms stretched on his side like wings and his shoulders going up and down frantically, his breathing was coming in long, hollow gasps. 

**“Sherrinford.”** The man suddenly said **“My name’s Sherrinford”** the man, or Sherrinford (apparently) said and then proceeded to clean his mouth of the little specks of slippery saliva with his sleeve that had come out during his violent streak and looked menacingly at John, like a prey would look at its meal.

**“Make sure to remember that, I'm sure it won't be hard since you're such a nice little pet, John.”** Sherrinford’s voice suddenly became lower, sweeter, like the soft wind in the midst of night entering a maidens window.

**“You have good memory yes?”** the man said, his voice suddenly becoming intoxicatingly sweet and a wicked smile appearing in his lips before he moved away from John and resumed his position in front of him.

His hands were behind his back and his head was slightly cocked to the side as if to give him an angelic appearance, but rather than looking anything remotely close to it he looked like more like a twisted demon ready to take your soul once you gave him the chance.

John stared at the man with hatred, or at least he attempted to, it was rather hard when his whole body was aching and he was wincing every now and then every time a part of the ceiling shattered below him.

Sherrinford seemed to be waiting for an answer to his question but John granted him no such thing.

_If he wants an answer_ , John thought, _I may as well give him a hard time getting one._

John stared up at the man defiantly. He felt like spitting at his shoes.

**“Oh, Johnny.”** Sherrinford looked at John as if disappointed when he noticed that he would not be given an answer.

**“Well,”** he said finally as he moved to the right, circling John as he waved a hand to a side **“If you do or don’t have good memory doesn't matter,”**  he looked at John steadily and John noticed that his eyes seemed to glow a dark shade of gold

**“Not anymore at least.”** Sherrinford said as if murmuring to himself, John had to admit that in that aspect he did look like Sherlock, if only slightly.

Sherrinford stopped his pacing around John completely, becoming terrifyingly still, so still that John couldn't notice if his chest was going up and down in that slow rise that commemorated the living.

For a moment John had to wonder if somehow time managed to freeze itself and keep him and only him as a living him still capable of moving, maybe trying to indulge him an attempt to escape but before he could even attempt to actually think of a way of escaping Sherrinford turned towards him slowly, one foot sliding slowly towards him before the other and his body coming slightly after and after a few seconds his face following the slow movements, it was as if he couldn't manage to control all of himself at the same time; as if he were managing himself slowly from the inside and didn't notice how awkward he looked to the outside world.

Which was more terrifying than the movement itself.

**“Well,”** Sherrinford said, his voice becoming far too calm for John’s liking.

**“Let’s get started, shall we?”** he asked as he linked his hands together below his chin and eagerly approached John once again.

**“You see, Johnny.”** He said, sounding like an adult about to explain something difficult to a child, something which John found incredibly annoying, and then positioning himself so that John could stare at him from his pathetic position on the ground.

**“I can't let you keep living with the knowledge that the mean man ever existed.”** Sherrinford said clearly referring to Sherlock as “the mean man” although to John it was starting to seem the other way around.

“And what do you plan to do about it?”  John asked, feeling that the ability to speak had returned to him and wanting to defy the man that thought himself above him.

**“Oh, so you can speak?”** the man asked, an edge of sarcasm in his voice that John knew meant that he didn't really care about anything John said at the moment.

**“It's relatively easy, really.”** Sherrinford said as he flashed one of his wicked smile towards John and started rummaging around his closing, looking for something around the front pockets of his suit, seemingly giving up and starting rummaging around his back trousers pockets.

**“Aha!”** The mad man grinned as he seemed to find what he was looking for,he slowly raised his hands as if to cause a dramatic effect and sighed victoriously.

**“With this Johnny, I’ll manage to help you forget the mean man.”** he said as he showed John a gigantic pair of scissors that could probably cut of John's hand with one wistful clip.

John stared at him with mixed feelings.

First of all, he felt baffled, what could the man do with a pair of scissors that could make John forget Sherlock?

Then fear, what _would_ the man do to make John forget Sherlock?

He started trembling a bit at the image of what one could do with a pair of scissors of that size and forced himself to keep staring defiantly.

**“Huh…”** Sherrinford sighed indifferently, **“Well, of course, you wouldn't understand just yet what someone like myself can do with a pair of scissors like these.”** he said eyeing the scissors with something akin to pleasure and contentment.

**“I made them myself.”** he said showing John the scissors with a proud expression, they had a black mastil and sharp blades that seemed to gleam despite the fact that there was little to no light in the room

John did not respond.

**“They’re not supposed to cut things, John,”** he said in an exasperated tone that was far too close to that of Sherlock’s for his liking.

**“It cuts…. ”** the man stopped speaking and started thinking of a way to explain to John what his precious scissors could cut, John remained silent the whole time, trying to think of a way he could escape, finding none for the third time and sighing.

**“....String….?”**  the man finished but it sounded more like a question than an answer,

**“Yes!”** He exclaimed.

**“A string.”** he repeated proudly, carrying the scissors as if they were an extension of his arm.

“They’re a pair of scissors, that’s what scissors do.” John said, his voice rough from the beating and lack of air; he knew that stating the obvious was already beyond himself but nevertheless he felt the need to make that point clear.

**“Well, yes,”** Sherrinford said in a hyper tone that sounded far too high pitched to be his own.

**“But this string cuts another kind of string, a nice red string, a really important and really, really nice string.”**

Sherrinford then proceeded to lift his hands up in a way that it seemed that he was offering a gift to a god and before he put them down again a bright red string appeared before him.

John stared in amazement but his expression faltered as he noticed that the long red string was tied to his own neck and was directed towards Sherrinford’s hands and of to far space; it appeared to be extremely long and went out of the now shattered room.

John wondered if he could find a way to escape if he were to follow it.

John also noticed that although the red thread seemed to encircle his neck but it did not touch him at all and seemed to float in thin air.

_How?_ He wanted to ask but found that he had no voice to ask it with.

**“You see, Johnny, Not many people get to see their strings, and even less people get to see the other end of it.”** Sherrinford said calmly, his voice having small traces of awe. **“And you, you John, you got to see both. You are quite something John Hamish Watson.”** John flinched at the use of his complete name and looked away, not wanting to keep looking at the smug expression on Sherrinford’s face.

**“Tsk. Of course you didn't know what you were looking at the moment.”**  Sherrinford continued. **“It doesn't matter anymore anyways, nothing matters anymore, nothing besides yourself that is.”** Sherrinford offered John a smile and went back to staring in awe at the string before him.

**“Its just so beautiful John, and so...so _red_ , it’s almost a shame that I have to cut it.”** Sherrinford did his best imitation of a pout before placing the scissors in front of the red string.

**“This is going to hurt a little bit, Okay Johnny? do your best not to shout.”** Sherrinford said in almost a bored tone before starting to cut the small red string before him.

Acid running through his veins. A bullet through his shoulder. Fire coursing through his system. An electroshock to his brain. His limbs being stretched out to incredible measures and separated from his body. Blood draining through his ears. The burn of the hot sun in Afghanistan. Being cut with a knife through your spine and into your eye sockets.  Someone stabbing his abdomen. His eyes being pulled out from their sockets. A burn. Pain. **Pain**. **Pain**. It was all John could register as the gigantic scissors did their best to cut the small string before his eyes; his senses going into an overdrive.

So much pain, it was almost unbearable.

John felt as if his whole body was shutting down slowly, first his internal organs, leaving his body intact as if it wanted him to feel what was occurring outside of him, the blood inside his body seemed to start rushing at a speed that it normally wouldn't be able to, his lungs seemed to start deflating making it harder and harder to breathe by the second, and his nerve system was shooting up horribly making him over-sensitive towards all of his surroundings, the floor felt like the coldest and hardest rock, it felt as if the coldness and hardness of it could crawl into John’s body and make him break without a second thought.

The cuts that he had been able to ignore until now, now made him shiver and gasp with the incomparable pain.

_Its worse than being shot_ , John thought as his senses overrode with pain and his brain seemed to start shutting down quickly yet not fast enough to stop his system from feeling the agony of the torture he was being forced through.

**“Bloody hell!”** he heard Sherrinford shout from his side but as his senses were at the moment it felt as if he were a million yards away, which at the moment sounded wonderful really.

Going past the horrible pain he managed to look at Sherrinford through the corner of his eye, Sherrinford was cursing as he snapped the scissors over the red string once and again and again trying to cut the string that remained intact even as Sherrinford tried to cut it with more force and more violently each time he tried to pass it through the string.

He could hear Sherrinford shouting louder each time he failed **“This shouldn't be happening!” “Why is this happening?” “My scissors don't fail!”**  were some of the few things he heard beside loud groans.

John felt a jolt of crackling lightning each time Sherrinford attempted to snap the string apart but even feeling the whole pain coursing through his body, even though he was feeling pain and numbness he couldn't stop the sick laugh that came from deep inside him at looking at the person he hated most at the moment failing a simple task.

He saw Sherrinford glare at him momentarily before shouting **“FUCK THIS!”** and promptly giving up.

 

_Ah, there was one of the difference to Sherlock then, Sherlock didn’t simply give up, he found other ways._

**“Oh, well, We’ll just have to pass that part then, it doesn't matter anyways, not that he’ll be able to find a way into Night Vale.”** Sherrinford said, his voice faking disinterest.

“....Dead….” John muttered from the ground, his voice muffled as he spoke of the man that filled his nightmares.

Sherlock.

Yes, he must be talking about Sherlock.

He heard Sherrinford laugh in the background but ignored it in favor of coping with the pain in his chest.

**“Uhmmm….”** Sherrinford hummed thoughtfully,   **“Yes, dead….of course, how could I forget such an _important_ detail.”** Sherrinford continued in a sarcastic tone which John also ignored in order to relinquish in the slowly subsiding pain.

It had something to do with the string, he was quite sure of it but how could he prove it? And did it even matter at the moment?

He didn't know.

**“Well, ”** Sherrinford said dismissively as he moved one hand in the air, **“The next step is going to be a little bit more painful, Johnny.”** he continued in a mocking tone.

John groaned from his position on the floor.

How could anything be more painful than the harsh breaking pain in one's chest? How could anything even relate to the burn he had felt at that moment that the string started closing in on his neck and the blood from his veins started burning like acid through his system?

How could anything relate to the pain he had felt in his chest as if something was being ripped out of him by force?

How could anything even relate?

 John really didn't want to know but there was nothing he could do.

He stayed in his position on the ground, what could he do? What could he do?

He started thinking about ways he could escape but found none.

He was utterly trapped and to the mercy of Sherlock’s impostor.

**“Hmm… Oh!”** Sherrinford said suddenly, as if he had just noticed something.

**“Don’t be ridiculous, Johnny.”** He said calmly, almost but not quite teasingly.

**“It doesn't hurt _physically,_ ”** he said indifferently still on his imaginary pedestal above John who felt that he would faint at any given moment.

**“It’s rather akin to….uhm….a paroxysm….maybe...”** the tall madman said unsure of himself.

John flinched at the use of the word paroxysm and groaned, expecting the worse whenever said pain would course through his body.

**“Oh well, now you just have to wait Johnny.”** the man said as he bent down a little and patted John in the head slowly, almost tenderly.

John glared at the man hatefully and made a noise comparable to that of a growl.

**“Calm down Johnny,”** Sherrinford said as he put his arms up in mock surrender. **“I’m the man you're gonna have to keep happy from now on, better keep yourself on my bright side.”**

**“Not that you could ever be on the dark side though, you're too cute for that.”** Sherrinford hummed happily as he started walking away slowly, his hands arranged below his chin.

**“Bye, bye Johnny.”** were the last words Sherrinford said as he waved without turning around and disappeared into the darkness of the room

John tried to move once more when he noticed that the madman was gone but his limbs seemed to be glued to the floor and he felt too weak to try to break the invisible ties that bound him to the ground.

His mind filled with thoughts of courage and of meekness all at once.

Should he even try to fight against his oppressor? or should he let himself die?

Was there even anything still out in the cold world for him?

What should he live for?

For an empty flat and a cold bed?

An unproductive job that he would never be able to climb?

He was about to let himself drift to the world of sleep and give up when an image of Sherlock appeared in his head.

First it was Sherlock looking at him, a worried expression upon his face.

“John? John are you alright? John look at me!” Sherlock’s faint image said to him.

He could almost swear Sherlock was really there with him, he could feel the brush of his fingertips on his cheek and could hear that distinctive baritone voice upon his ears.

_“....Sher….lock…_ ” he said slowly trying to reassure his worried friend.

But of course it proved to be a hard task when he was bloody and barely capable of speaking.

What should he do?

“John!” Sherlock shouted, his hands going slowly through John’s cheek, caressing slowly.

He was probably about to die, so what should he do?

He wanted to say so many things to Sherlock, even if it was an image that his head had created.

Well, he could take risks right?

_“Sherlock…”_ he attempted to speak _“I- I have to tell you….I have to tell you….I-”_ He started, his voice muffled by the streams of blood on his mouth.

“John! John, don’t- don’t speak…” Sherlock’s voice quivered. “I-I’ll get us out of here, please just calm down.”

He closed his eyes slowly, _wow, his mind could make the worst imitations of Sherlock._

Sherlock would never even attempt to reassure him like that.

Too much sentiment.

_“I-...Sherlock...I….You…”_ he attempted, it was incredibly hard to speak, especially when not only were the shivers that went through his body caused by the pain coursing through him but also because of the words he was about to say.

He wasn't good with this kind of situations.

_“You were the only one...the only one... the wisest man I've ever known….”_  he mumbled, his jaw hurting because of the strain of opening his mouth to speak.

_“The only man worth living for, the one that saved….that saved me….”_

He heard Sherlock sob in the distance.

_“I...I love you, Sherlock Holmes…”_ he finally said _“And know….please know….that you….only you ever managed that….saved me….”_ he kept mumbling, his words sounding more like gibberish than actual words.

“John, John…” he kept hearing Sherlock repeating his name like a mantra.

“Don’t- Please don’t….not yet, don’t die, please, not yet….I- I can’t lose you, not now, not ever...please.”

He coughed slowly as he felt life creeping out of him.

_“...love...love you…_ ” he muttered again, he didn't care if the Sherlock created by his mind never responded to him in equal, he just wanted to say it.

“I-I…” He could hear Sherlock stutter between sobs, his fingers on his face felt warm and alive.

So very alive.

“I love you, too, I love you John Watson.” He heard Sherlock's words and felt a warm feeling spread throughout his body through his neck towards his chest and ending at the fingertips of his hands, it was so different to how Sherrinford had said it, it was sweet and natural yet still tainted with that small tone of voice that was truly Sherlock’s “And this…” Sherlock continued.

“This isn't the end….I swear I’ll save you.”

John smiled, he knew that the possibilities that the fake image of Sherlock saved him were non-existent but it was still comforting to know that even the real Sherlock would attempt to save him and the words, the words and the way the image said them felt so real, so beautifully real.

He could feel specks of small salty liquid fall upon his face and ignored them because he knew they were Sherlock’s, Sherlock wouldn't want him to acknowledge them.

“I love you.” John repeated, his voice broken and hoarse.

“I love you, I love you, John.” he heard that deep baritone voice say to him as his hands caressed his cheeks.

John could see the image start to disappear, it was becoming bleak and disappearing and appearing once and again.

“Sherlock….” he managed to say before the image finally disappeared in the span of seconds.

It had felt so real, Sherlock’s fingers caressing his cheek, his deep voice speaking to him, comforting him.

Could he just give up now?

Should he give up now?

Because even though what he had just seen seemed so real, it wasn't.

He couldn't go back to Sherlock, he knew that, Sherlock was dead but there was something, a feeling nagging in the back of his head shouting at him that he needed to survive.

Suddenly images of Sherlock started parading around his head.

Sherlock on the couch, sulking like a five year old; Sherlock solving a case, his expression completely focused and his lips moving at an incredible speed, dropping deductions like a madman; Sherlock jumping excited because he has a new case, his long legs bending slightly as he jumps; Sherlock calling people idiots because they can't observe; Sherlock staring at him with that little grin on his face because John just said something that lead him to solve a case without meaning to; Sherlock.

Just Sherlock staring at him, he is no longer envisioning the Sherlock that took his life on the verge of Saint Bart's Hospital, Sherlock that has saved his life in so many ways so many times before and now he was giving up his life because he felt drowsy.

No, he couldn't do that, it wouldn't be fair, he had to live….for Sherlock, the Sherlock that had saved him.

Yes, Sherlock.

“....Sherlock….” John muttered, his voice almost a whisper.

With the little force he had in him he attempted to get up, his legs felt rigid and it caused him pain to even attempt to get up but somehow, with the image of Sherlock in his mind he managed to get into a sitting position.

His mind felt even dizzier when he was sitting, he felt as if some force was trying to make him fall once more but he managed to resist it enough to get on all fours and start crawling forward.

He looked up to see that there were still a few shards of what was apparently glass on the top parts, some looked as if they used to be corners but he couldn't really tell, ahead there were small pieces of what was supposedly floor, he himself was crawling in one of the few parts of the ground that was still standing, standing above what, he did not know.

Below him the glass shards that had fallen were no longer visible and the glass shards above him seemed to glow and reflect purple light.

He crawled towards the edge of the small shred of floor he was in.

_So now what?_ he asked himself when he noticed that there was no way he could get to the other piece of floor that was far too far to reach even if he were to attempt to get up and try to jump there.

Finally, deciding that he had done what he could to save himself (and had sadly failed) he let the strength of gravity pull him down, letting his legs give in to the force that pulled him and resting his forehead on the cool dark floor.

The cool floor felt good against his head that had started feeling far too warm some time ago, he let the cold feeling travel throughout his body and permitted his body to give in to the feeling of rest.

Suddenly, the world trembled.

It was a slow tremor that seemed to come from the remote back of the initially smaller looking room and then extended itself towards John and to the far end of what was visible.

It startled John of course but he could not move any longer.

A sharp pain had started coursing through his body and even if it wasn't remotely close to the pain he had felt when Sherrinford had attempted to cut the red string that bound his neck, it still dulled him and caused his body to ache.

It was enough really.

Why did he have to live through this?

Why couldn't he just give up?

_Oh, right, Sherlock._

But there wasn't anything left to do, so he allowed his eyelids to flutter slowly and let the room crumble below and above him, he felt the fragment on which he was positioned shift, he looked at the edge of the shred he was on and stared at the vast darkness that was below.

_Hell,_ he thought, _its probably hell that awaits me, I have harmed far too many people, I was never enough, not for my father, not for my mother, not for Harry, and not for Sherlock._

_Never was I supposed to walk through this world._

He let the dark thoughts that had filled his mind for the past year overcome him and felt dread and a sharp pain on his chest as he let himself go towards the faintest trace of death.

Death. He could accept death, after all, he had expected death many times before; in his childhood each time his father returned drunk and angry because he couldn't find a job and attempted to take his frustration on him, or the days his mother would have one of those shifts in personality and would try to drown him by putting his head below the water in the bathtub and letting him go just when he was about to lose consciousness. When he was a teenager and the stress of having to compete with others for the best grades and scholarships overcame him, when he attempted to put a razor against his wrists and Harry had entered the room intoxicated and had started shouting at him to just do it, to kill himself and do everyone a favor, telling him that if he hadn't been born the Watson household would be happier, and then Mike Stanford would always interrupt at just the right moment and save him.

He had become a doctor because of Mike Stanford.

In his early adulthood when he was below the hot sun of Afghanistan, when he killed the first man of many he would later kill, when he let the pressure of having killed someone take over him and Major Sholto had spoken to him, calmed him down and told him that everything would be okay.

When he had gone back to London and there was nothing more to live for, when he had tried to put a gun against his temple, that time he had met Sherlock Holmes and he had been saved yet again.

Where were those people now?

Where was Mike, were was Sholto?

Where was Sherlock?

“....Sherlock….” He whispered again as he felt the fragment he was on give one last tremble before it started cracking from the middle back side, slowly ripping itself apart before reaching John himself.

When the shred did reach him and started falling; one side to the right and the other to the left he couldn't do anything, he was left in the middle to fall.

The fall in itself wasn't what he expected.

Rather than feeling a dread that he should surely be feeling knowing that he was falling to the pits of hell and death, he felt calm.

He imagined that that was how Sherlock should have felt, calm and at peace to know that his existence would disappear.

That there would be no more idiots to cloud his vision.

He wondered if Sherlock believed in heaven, the answer of course was no.

He felt like an angel falling from the heavens and falling to its own doom in hell.

He let his eyes close as the air coursed through his face and let the sleep he so craved overcome him.

Letting the darkness enveloped him like a blanket of death.

His eyes closed, his head stopped rushing thoughts through him and he was at last in peace.

Peace at last, calm at last, death at the end of the fall.

Such a permanent destination that death seemed to be….

Or so he hoped as he permitted his senses to dull and numb towards the end.

Oh, how pitifully wrong he was to think that that would be the end, he should have know that nothing was that easy.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock POV

He had been attempting to sleep when the image overcame him.

It was as if he was dreaming but had complete control  over his senses, _had it been a dream?_

He had been in Spain for a few months, at the moment he had been resting after having killed off some of Moriarty’s men that were still left in Europe.

Next week he would probably be in America, maybe Brazil or Canada, Moriarty had men everywhere so he couldn't really know where he would end up next.

_Still not enough, so many more to go._

He just wanted to go back home, he wanted to go back to London, to John, his John.

The image of John in the moment that Sherlock took the fall, the sound of his pitiful begs when he was looking at Sherlock before him, bleeding and dead, or the look John gave him when he was standing in front of his grave, begging that it was all a nightmare, a trick, those images haunted him day and night.

How was John? Was John happy? Was John still grieving him?

Surely John had forgotten him already?

It had been when he had finally been capable of sleeping for a few minutes that the nightmare overcame him.

In the dream he was in a dark battered room, he couldn't see anything around him but somehow knew that the room was very large.

Suddenly in the dark quiet room he heard a whimper.

A whimper that he somehow recognized.

He ran towards the noise, after a few moments of running towards where he was sure he had heard the small whimper he came upon a cage.

A golden cage with beautiful carvings.

But still a cage, he thought bitterly as the cage made him remember his own metaphoric golden cage that was the Holmes residence years ago.

He came closer to the cage and touched its side, only when he was that close to it did he notice that there was someone inside it.

The small shadow hid in one of the corners of the cage.

“Who are you?” Sherlock asked calmly to the shadow that simply flinched as if only recently noticing Sherlocks existence.

The shadow did not respond.

Sherlock circled the cage trying to get a good look at whoever had been sentenced to the golden cage but could not look at him or her as the shadow simply moved as far away from him as he could every time he came close enough to at least look at his silhouette.

He was about to try to speak again when a bright light came from afar, shining on the golden cage bars and presenting a bright line of shining gold light between the shadow and himself.

The shadow quickly moved towards the bright line and showed itself to Sherlock.

Sherlock froze as he noticed what was before him or rather who.

The blank stare of charming blue eyes, the small frame of a man that once was, and the bones that were visible even through the clothing he was wearing, but most of all, what would capture ones stare were the gigantic white wings that were behind his back.

In front of him, behind the golden bars stood one John Hamish Watson, his stare blank and displaying behind his back a pair of majestic and gigantic white wings.

“John!” Sherlock shouted, expecting John to finally look at him, to have his focused stare on him and not at whatever blank point John was staring at.

_John, John, why is John here? Should John be here? Why is he not looking at me?_

_Is he mad?_

_John, John, John, John._

_Look at me, look at me John, please, please._

_Just look at me, look all of it for you._

_Everything._

Sherlock begged in his head.

But the blond man did not respond to him but rather started to _….to sing?_

“In a dark night.” John sung, his voice velvety and soft, softer than it had ever been.

“He thought the world was coming to an end.”

Sherlock stared at him intently trying to figure out what he should do and what John himself was doing.

“That time wouldn't pass.” John kept singing, his voice lulling Sherlock slowly.

 

Sherlock had never heard John sing.

 

It was, to say the least, the most beautiful thing he had ever heard.

He was so enchanted and distracted by John’s voice and not too common actions to notice the dark figure that was creeping behind John in the golden cage.

“And that his soul was spent.” That was the moment Sherlock noticed the shadow behind John, but sadly it was too late.

 

Without either John or himself noticing the dark figure attacked John, delivering a hard kick to his gut.

“John!” Sherlock shouted shocked and frustrated that he couldn't find a way to enter the cage.

The bars were very close to one another so he couldn't go through them, there was no way he could break the bars and there was nothing he could pick the lock with.

He was forced to watch the figure do as it pleased with John.

 

**“He’s rotting.”** the shadow continued to sing for John as it pushed the blond to the ground, pressing one of its limbs to John’s back.

The shadows voice was horrid and distorted, such a contrast between John’s own soft feathery voice.

Sherlock felt a surge of anger rush through him as the shadow continued, its face still hidden behind the light in the dark cage.

**“And he’s rotting, more and more.”** the shadow sang, making each word stronger as he hit John in the back after each word, kicking against his back violently with his right foot.

It was barely singing now, its voice being more of a mocking melody.

Sherlock started hitting the bars of the golden cage in an attempt to simply do something.

But it was all useless.

__

_Useless, Useless, Useless!_

From his front he could hear John cough, blood coming out of his mouth as he grimaced, a few tears were rolling through his eyes and Sherlock couldn’t do anything.

**“It started dripping some time ago, so it won’t ever become dry.”** The shadow sang as it grabbed John’s right wing and started pulling forcefully, John then howled as the pain surged through his body.

Sherlock grimaced when he heard John’s voice so broken and tearful.

He felt anger surging quicker and quicker through him and started hitting the bars of the cage with his bare hands.

_Damn this! Damn this room! Damn this world! Damn everything!_ He thought as he hit the bars.

_why oh why couldn’t he break these bars?_

_Why was John on the other side and not with him?_

**“He only waits for the moment when he will be taken and buried underground.”** the dark shadow continued, its voice sounding constantly like a snarl.

John howled once more as the shadow give another tug at his wing insisting on tearing the wing on any means possible.

Sherlock cringed as the wing started separating from John’s body.

_That’s on John’s bad shoulder_ Sherlock thought as he gripped on to the golden bars looking to control himself.

_It’ll be sore later on._

If John made it out alive that is.

Sherlock cringed at the thought of never being able to go back to John, never being able to go back home to him, to warm tea and comfy jumpers.

To his only friend.

No, no no no no no no no.

He hit the bars of the golden cage once more and didn’t even flinch when he started bleeding, his knuckles red with the pressure, it wasn’t that it didn’t hurt but his point of focus was on the shout John gave as the dark shadow finally managed to break some of the flesh that connected John’s right wing to his right shoulder.

Sherlock had only seen that expression of pure fear and pain on John’s face once in his whole lifetime.

The time he took the fall at the rooftop of St. Barts Hospital.

“John, John, John, John.” He chanted, maybe, _maybe_ , just maybe he could distract John enough to help him bear the pain.

But John didn’t look at him, regardless of the look of pain on John’s face, his eyes were still unfocused and void as if he were drugged, which to Sherlocks understanding he probably was.

What was happening to John?

_Did John hate him so much he couldn’t even look at him?_

No, No, John would never hate him, never, never, at least not that much.

_Would he?_

He heard the slow ripple of flesh being separated and John howling in raw pain.

The image of such a majestic white wing inked by crimson blood being separated from its owner; the scraps of flesh and tell-tale signs of white bone being separated and ripping slowly made him cringe.

But the wing was still a part of John, it would take quite a while to separate it in such a crude manner, it was being done in such a cruel way to make John suffer.

They, he, it, the... _the thing,_ wanted John to suffer.

_Why?_

Sherlock didn't know, and surprisingly it didn't matter that he didn't know, he just wanted John home, safe and warm.

Not cold and being killed slowly.

_Would the blood loss kill John?_

 

**“Happy because he no longer will be, and will disappear.”** the shadow broke the silence again, a sick twisted tone filling the room that sounded like the sound of a broken violin.

**“In a dark night!”** The shadow sang gleefully its last verse and with one strong firm pull ripped John’s right wing completely off.

The sound that John made at that moment sounded like the screech of a violin, maybe a cello played by a very unskilled player.

It reminded Sherlock of when he was a child attempting to play mummy’s violin without knowing how to use it, after a few attempts and failing to master it, he decided to use it as a distraction.

That violin had saved him many times and now John was making that same broken noise his violin made when he used it incorrectly. A screech.

It was a horrible scream filled with fear and pain.

What could he do? How did he reassure John when John didn't even look at him?

He started hitting the bars of the golden cage once again as if that way he could get an answer that would help him, but of course, none came.

He shivered and with a start noticed that the shadow was now in the light.

The shadow, now a man, glowered at him before taking the wing, putting it behind his back, as if trying to hide it and walking slowly towards the door of the golden cage that was behind it.

All of this without removing his glare.

The man had sandy blond hair like John, his eyes were a soulless grey and he was quite tall.

Sherlock gazed at him angrily and noticed that the man was wearing a soldier uniform.

Was he someone John knew?

He never heard any sort of description of the man before him, but then again he and John never really spoke of many things concerning John’s past.

He always felt curious about it but found it better not to ask as to not to make John uncomfortable.

The man looked like someone who had very few days to live, his cheeks were hollow and his rib cage was visible through the scrapes of the uniform he was wearing.

_“MINE.”_ the thing snarled with the wing behind its back as if it could be hidden so easily before retreating towards the golden gate.

Sherlock wanted to follow it, torture it however he could, tie it to a chair and cut each of its limbs piece by piece but at the moment there were more important matters like the fact that he could hear John whimpering in the background.

He glared at the retreating figure that disappeared in the midst of darkness and was about to enter the cage that separated him from his dear John when the door closed itself upon him.

_Bloody hell!_ he cursed as he attempted to open the door but found that he couldn't.

He approached John and gently started calling for him again.

“John? John, can you hear me?”

A faint hum was his only response.

John was looking more focused but his eyes were still void, Sherlock wanted to look at his injuries, he wanted to take him home.

He looked at the blood that was dripping from John’s shoulder, the blood was dark and appeared to be sticky, he also noticed that not only was blood flowing out of John’s body, there was...something else dripping from John’s shoulder, there was something that looked like dark violet ink flowing through his body and towards the floor.

“John?” he asked tentatively once more hoping that finally, just finally John would respond to his cries.

Suddenly the faintest image of a red string appeared to connect him and John from neck to neck appeared before his eyes.

_How?_ but before he could question its existence a sharp pain started coursing through his body making him fall to the ground and start wheezing from the pain.

From the background he could hear small whimpers from John but as much as he attempted to get closer to him the pain stopped him from doing so.

He felt as if something heavy was being pressed upon his chest, his breathing starting to become quicker as less air entered his lungs, and the blood coursing through his system felt like it was mercury coursing through him rather than blood.

He felt as if he was being ripped apart inside slowly, each of his organs being slowly separated from his body, blood vessels breaking, bones being splintered and separated, skull crushing against the floor, the rays of the powerful sun burning his skin like acid.

It was overwhelming and simply far too much.

He hit the floor with his hands in an attempt to re-direct the pain to other places of his body as to decrease the pain in his chest and attempted to muffle the sobs that incremented as the pain did.

He was sure he was going to faint from the sheer will of not shouting out but then, just as the pain had come it disappeared, not instantly nor quickly, but slowly and in small intervals of time.

He started calling out John’s name again, had John felt it too?

He slowly crawled on his knees and hands with one hand placed delicately over his chest towards John.

“John? John, Are you alright? John look at me!” Sherlock almost shouted panicked as he placed his hand gently above John’s cheek which was one of the few places of John’s body he could reach through the golden bars.

_“...Sher...lock….”_ John said and finally, finally looked at him, his eyes losing the blankness they once had and finally focusing on him.

John’s voice was hoarse and small, almost a whisper in the middle of the darkened room.

“John!’ Sherlock shouted out of pure relief as he started stroking John’s cheek slowly.

John was alright, he was alive, he would survive, Sherlock could save him, Sherlock would save him.

“Sherlock…” John said, his voice the smallest Sherlock had ever heard it.

“I...I have to tell you…I have to tell you....I-” he continued, his voice muffled by the blood coming in slow huffs out of his mouth.

“John! John, don’t- don’t speak… ” Sherlock’s voice quivered in fear, the implications of what John would want to say, the way he said it, it could only mean that John was expecting to die here, here in this dark room.

“I-I’ll get us out of here, please just calm down.” Sherlock promised, the words empty as he couldn’t find himself willing to lie when there were no real assurances that he could get John out safe and alive.

He saw John close his eyes slowly below him, his expression one of slight disbelief and fear.

_“Sherlock...I….You….”_ John continued disregarding Sherlock’s words

No, no, no. John wouldn't die, Sherlock wouldn't permit it, then why did John not listen to him? He needed to stay calm and quiet so that Sherlock could find a way out, John had to remain motionless so that his body could recover, he should maintain his energy.

Didn't John know this? He was a doctor, of course he knew, he just chose to ignore it.

“You were the only one...the only one... the wisest man I've ever known….” John mumbled, his voice still low and slow but he seemed to have restored some of his old confidence.

John had always made Sherlock think of a soldier preparing for war, he had decided that it was a result of the many wars that John had encountered on his own and the pain of being alone yet having to fake contentment, because that was how John was.

John was happy, yes, Sherlock knew that but there was always a tint of faint desperation in certain situations, not many with Sherlock but some nonetheless.

He would notice the way John would flinch when they were solving certain cases, not those which were the bloodiest which would make sense, but those that showed physical violence and some sort of torture towards the victim that was beyond control.

Sherlock knew why John would flinch and look away, he knew that it was because John had fought many battles.

Many battles against himself and the world and until then John had been successful in returning to the world.

When the world decided that John Watson would be shot, John Watson shot it right back and continued living, he stood up bloody and unstable and saved himself.

Just like John Watson always did.

  
That was why Sherlock didn't expect his death to affect John gravely, because John Watson was a soldier, he had been shot many times before, both physically and mentally yet stood up regardless of the pain.

John Watson was strong and even if it would pain him, Sherlock knew that John would stand up every day and continue existing.

But now it seemed that that existence was coming to the end and the battle had been won.

The world had won, it had managed to hurt John Watson to the point he could no longer stand proud and graceful as he had always been.

Why had the world done this? Why had it decided to point all its arms on the one and only human Sherlock found amusing and simply incredible?

Sherlock thought that it was because the world was so dull it couldn't manage to have men like John Hamish Watson in it, much less when they were both together, he and John,  a duet of pandemonium, a sonnet in the middle of the night deserting their isolated nature and becoming the music of the devils of land that dance in midst darkness.

The world was just that cruel and cold.

Sherlock did not respond to John’s words, as he didn't know how to and he was still concentrating on finding a way to save John.

“The only man worth living for, the one that saved….that saved me….” John continued, the words making and unpleasant hole in Sherlock's stomach.

He felt like vomiting out of sheer emotional pain, Sherlock was not used to demonstrate or receive any kind of sentiment actions, yet here he was, his chest aching and his eyes starting to become wet all because of one John Watson.

He couldn't control the sob that came out in that moment nor the tears that starting flowing through his eyes and towards his cheeks, he could taste the faint taste of salt when the first tears passed through his lips.

He didn't cry often so the tears felt uncomfortable resting upon his face  and his eyes felt like  they were burning.

He knew what words were coming next, he didn't want to hear them, well, he did want to hear them, but not in this situation, not when the only one that mattered was bloody, hurting and dying in a dark unlit room.

“I...I love you, Sherlock Holmes…”

The words made his whole system stop, they clashed in his mind like a whirlwind in the middle of the sea, sucking out all life and non life from no particular destination.

The sea that was blue, so blue and deep.

As blue and deep as John’s own stormy eyes that changed so casually from one storm to another, from looking like the clear sky to looking from a storm prepared to destroy all in its way.

John that changed so casually from being a calm and kind doctor to a terrifying and controlled soldier that could give orders as if he was born with the capability to control others.

“And know….please know….that you….only you ever managed that….saved me….” Sherlock  permitted himself one more sob before looking back at John, his blue eyes becoming slightly unfocused but still as blue as ever.

John.

John.

He wasn't completely sure if was really saying John name or if he was only repeating it in his head, at this moment his mind had reduced itself to John, John and this cruel plot twist that had brought him upon the scene of his loved one being ripped apart before his eyes without him being capable of stopping it.

“Don’t- Please don’t….not yet, don’t die, please, not yet….I- I can’t lose you, not now, not ever...please.” I can’t live without you anymore, life would be meaningless, there would be nothing left of me for this world. I would be alone as I had been before, so alone, I can't go back to being alone. Please. Sherlock wasn't completely sure of what words were coming out of his mouth and which were staying in but the need to speak overflowed him, he wanted to say so many things even if it was in such a situation.

Even if he was never capable of repeating them to the only one he wanted to know them.

He wanted to hold John in his hands, hug him and reassure that everything would be okay, that he would be okay that Sherlock could save him, he just needed time.

Only time.

“...love...love you…” John mumbled his words muffled and slow.

Sherlock could see the resigned expression in John’s face.

John wasn't expecting a response.

Sherlock gave him one anyway.

“I-I…” Sherlock started, his throat feeling like it was being clogged by a ball of stress and fear.

He had never felt so many emotions together in his lifetime.

He felt grief and pain, he felt terrified and amused.

He felt too many things, but he also felt happy because John had finally said those words, which in turn made him feel guilty because sadly only this kind of situation would make them resolve their problems.

Only death made them one.

And John, _John had said he loved him._

John Hamish Watson, Ex-army doctor, former blogger, had said he loved Sherlock Holmes.

 

He had never heard anything that could make him happier than then in that moment.

It seemed that the day was claimed to be a day of many new things but Sherlock did not want to include the failure of not managing to save John in that set of new things.

“I love you, too, I love you John Watson.” Sherlock said, the words that he had wanted to say for so long now coming out so naturally.

“And this…” Sherlock pointed to John and himself.

“This isn’t the end….I swear I’ll save you.” he said a little sob coming out unwillingly.

John smiled up at him.

“I love you.” John repeated, his voice hoarse and raspy but to Sherlock’s ears still sweet and soft as John’s voice always had been.

He could feel John shivering below him, the weight of his words and actions clashing on Sherlock's shoulders like lightning striking an old oak tree in a faraway mountain, destroying it by the middle part, separating it from its other half and destroying its roots, leaving it dull and forgotten off to die.

He knew that the end of their encounter was closer by the second, he could see John’s respiration becoming slower, too slow, his body convulsing in a slow rhythm below him.

His life a quick star in a bursting night, lighting up and disappearing to never be seen again.

He wanted to respond, he wanted to tell John how much he adored him but there wasn't enough time to say everything he wanted to say and this wasn’t the situation in which he wanted to find himself when he told John either.

Regardless he kept his thoughts as simple as he could and responded to John in kind.

“I love you, I love you, John.” He said with as much confidence as he could muster in the situation that was presented to him, he caressed John’s cheeks (as it was the only thing he could physically touch.)

“...Sherlock…” he heard John whisper his name like the name of a god before the light seemed to disappear from his eyes and they closed slowly.

Sherlock panicked when John closed his eyelids and quickly gave a quick inspection of John’s body.

There were more physical injuries that the ones the thing had inflicted in John when Sherlock had been there.

His body was completely destroyed and Sherlock had to wonder how much time John had been this room, and wonder it was because he couldn't complete any thought process when John was the only thing in his head.

He tried to reach into the cage so that he could feel John’s chest and revise his breathing but he couldn’t reach any farther, so quickly yet softly he placed his hand below John’s noise and hoped to receive any pressure of air

He let out a shaky breath when he felt the soft pressure of John’s short and small exhales, he was pale and his  cheeks were starting to taint faintly of a purple-ish nature.

He caressed John’s cheeks softly with the tips of his fingers and exhaled loudly with his nose.

_What now?_

John was still alive but he couldn't get him out of this place.

He contemplated walking around to figure out to what extents the room stretched, but he was adamant on leaving John alone especially when the room seemed so incredibly large.

Its walls seemed to go on forever, the man that had torn of John’s wing had gone off somewhere, so that mean that there had to be an exit somewhere close around.

But what if John awoke and he wasn't there with him to take care of him?

He had to find a way to open the bloody cage.

He took a moment to observe John’s body, stopping only to review John’s remaining wing.

He was more than sure that John didn’t have wings originally but then again many things had been acting up against his mind that day.

That fateful day.

No, this was all a creation of his mind, an insipid attempt at making him feel even guiltier than he already did.

Wings...white winged….doves….peace….divine….angels...

He couldn't by any chance believe in the existence of angels, but John’s wing was more than proof that something akin to angels did in fact exist, at least in that facade of his mind he unconsciously knew that what he was seeing couldn't be true but also somehow knew had something real in it.

He just didn't know what in specific it was.

He wanted to touch John’s remaining wing and prove that his eyes did not deceive him but he could not and did not reach, although somehow his unconscious quickly accepted the idea that John could be an angel and stored it in the room labeled “John.” in his mind palace.

Because really, who else but John Watson to prove himself to be an angel?

John Watson who could fool deceive many into believing that he was a simple-mannered and dull doctor, John Watson who was anything but simple, John Watson who was full of surprises.

John Watson was everything.

He was about to decide on looking for an exit, which all on its own was better than staying crouched down and doing nothing and leaving John off to die without attempting something, when he felt a gush of wind pass through him like the first comings of a hurricane -or- of a door being opened in a closed room.

He shivered as he felt the presence of another person in the room.

He turned towards the gush of wind that had stopped barely seconds ago and waited.

At first there was nothing but complete darkness and hollow space that made Sherlock think that not only were his eyes deceiving him but his senses as well.

He was about to continue his thinking process when a light made itself present, well, technically not a light, but something that looked quite similar to it.

Suddenly, the world trembled and shadows that rather than being dark seemed to outcast themselves in a grayish shade started appearing from the margins of the room.

They had -apparently- no faces or mouths so Sherlock couldn't quite comprehend how it was that they were laughing and mocking him, like the whispers of all the people that had once taunted him.

_“He can’t save him.”_ they murmured _“He can’t save John Watson.”_

_“For all the brains he has he can’t save John Watson.”_ murmured another, its voice feminine and taking in a proper voice instead of sounding like mumbling shadows.

_“Sherlock Holmes let John Watson die!.”_ Shouted another in delight, its voice sounding as if it were in the far off corners of the room.

_“He’s just a freak!”_ shouted another, its voice deeper and rougher, it was that of a male, contrasting with the one of the female.

Their voices were oddly familiar.

_“Aye, he’s a freak.”_ they started agreeing with one another.

_“Freak, freak, weird freak, can’t do anything.”_ they started chanting in repetition.

_“Freak. Freak Freak.”_ all their different voices, some high pitched some others deep and rough, all of them, laughing, mocking him with their insistent voices.

He placed his hands above his ears in an attempt to muffle them in desperation, he felt like sneering and shouting at the same time but did none.

Because really, how could he?

Wasn't what they were saying all true?

He couldn't save John, John was dying at his feet and he couldn't even open the bloody gate that trapped him to check his vital signals, and the rest, the rest was well known by everyone.

**Freak.** Freak, he was a freak, he knew it, he both hated and felt delighted to know that he was different, never in his life had he wished to be normal (that would be far too dull) but the word had followed him all his life,

He despised the word.

Despised it with all of his being.

That one bloody word.

“Freak! Freak! Freak!” they chanted almost in unison but not quite, as if done on purpose,  voices overlapping one another by mere seconds, making them sound off, their voices were so loud and thunderous, it felt as if they were shouting right next to his earlobe, it was painful, annoying and hostile.

That word brought him memories from a painful childhood and horrendous years in university, oh how he despised that word, despised it with every fiber of his being.

“Shut up.” He said once, quietly and lacking his usual confidence, his hands still above his ears but the voices just seemed to get louder and louder.

“Freak. Freak Freak.”

“Shut up.” He said again, this time his voice louder, his breathing becoming faster,  as if he were having a conversation rather than attempting to shout it out in desperation but the voices did not listen and kept chanting the word as if it were his name.

_As if it defined him._

_As if there was nothing more to him than the colossal fact that he could see what other could not._

_As if it were his code-name._

_His essence._

_His being._

**_As if it was him._ **

**“Shut up!”** he finally screamed in desperation, his hands leaving the sides of his head for a few moments to turn into a gesture of annoyance before returning to their place.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.” he chanted in one sole breath as he started pacing around the room, attempting to avoid the flush of memories threatening to invade his mind palace and convert him into nothing more than a sobbing mess.

He started pacing in small circles, from one tip of the cage to the other, his hands in his hair, pulling and stretching out.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up.” he kept repeating in a small whisper, his voice broken and desperate, he felt his eyes starting to become wet but didn’t permit himself to cry.

But the voices would not shut up.

They kept murmuring and shouting and whispering, all of them, chanting that one word.

Finally, out of desperation, he approached the grey shadows that seemed to have no mouths and attempted to attack them or it, when he did though, he practically went soaring through it.

He could see now, that the shadows were exactly that, shadows of some kind of strange fog.

Like a cloud that glowed only in a grayish light.

He noticed that the murmurs would be appeased when he removed the fog and the shadow that was once belonging to it would also disappear, so he started fisting his hands in the air as if trying to scare off a bee.

His hands waving around all the fog, the voices dissipating into nothingness slowly.

Their voices shouting desperately each time Sherlock would finish them off, their screams were horrid and high pitched so each time Sherlock would do this he’d have to cover his ears as quickly as possible as to not hear them.

He did this in a quick and desperate manner as he couldn't stand the chanting of that bloody word.

When he was finished with every single little space that could once have been a place for that treacherous fog to reside in, he permitted himself to fall to the floor close to the spot where John’s head lay and closed his eyes, his back resting uncomfortably against the hard bars of the cage.

He took deep shallow breaths, his breath coming out in small puffs of air that looked very similar to the grey fog he had just dissipated.

He had just ended the fog-shadow looking creatures so he figured he should feel slightly calmer but he couldn’t, he felt as if something was still not right, there was a pressing on his chest and something in his mind kept giving him signals that he could not recognize as anything but DANGER! Escape!

He opened his eyes slowly and scanned the room and then, right then when he was looking around the room that had little spots of grey air, thats when it hit them.  
There was still a presence in the room.

There was still someone or something in the room.

Sherlock stood up immediately and searched the room quickly, he couldn’t see anything but he felt that there was someone there.

Then, from the midst of darkness a big grey light appeared, it looked like the fog-shadows but had a much more human like figure.

The sound of slow deliberate clapping started filling the room and only then did Sherlock notice that the shadow was moving what appeared to be its hands.

It was clapping.

For what, Sherlock didn't quite know.

**“Congratulations, Mr. Holmes.”** Said the shadow, its voice deep and hoarse.

“Its quite entertaining to see you in difficult situations.”

Sherlock did not respond but glared at the shadow with sharp eyes.

“I mean,” continued the shadow. “I expected you to be calmer, after all, everybody knows you, the great Sherlock Holmes, couldn’t possibly care about another simple human being.” said the voice sarcastically, giving one small glance at John’s direction before returning to looking at Sherlock.

The shadow was slowly walking toward Sherlock, the grey light disappearing and becoming fog which in turn disappeared to reveal limbs.

Sherlock glared at him angrily, the shadows deep green eyes staring back at him defiantly.

Sherlock took an instinctive step back, not out of cowardice or because he wanted to get away from the shadow but because he felt the need to protect John who was unconscious behind him.

**“Uhmm…”** the shadow expressed amused, now it’s legs, hands, arms and torso were visible, every part of its face except for its eyes hidden behind grey shadows.

“You know, Mr Holmes.” Said the shadow.

“I know that you've gained quite a liking to dear Doctor Watson.”  the shadow was now a few steps away from Sherlock, its face finally revealing itself.

Sherlock had never seen this man.

He wanted to deduce the man but the very moment he took it upon himself to spare him a second glance and actually think his head would start pounding horribly and he would feel as if his brain was attempting to escape from his head.

“But you see, I also have quite a liking for our dear angel here.” The shadow said, its voice a tremendous wave of sound.

“Who are you?” Sherlock finally found the voice to ask still glaring at the malignant shadow now turned man.

He was almost completely sure that this man was no acquaintance of John as he wasn't either the kind of people John approached nor the type of people he preferred to speak to.

Besides he’d never heard John describe a man of this type when he would speak of the earlier years of his life, which he would every now and day place upon himself to speak of to Sherlock in an attempt to get Sherlock to speak of his own earlier years.

Of the years that don’t matter because John wasn't in them.

The man glared at him.

“Name’s Sherrinford.” he murmured, any trace of a British accent disappearing and turning into an american one.

Why, again, Sherlock didn't quite know.

“I will not permit anyone to hurt John.” Sherlock said, his voice menacing and serious.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes,” the taller man said, his tone condescending.

“But you’ve already permitted it.” the man gave Sherlock a toothy smile, his teeth white and as sharp as those of a canine.

“No.” Sherlock said, his voice below a whisper, he knew that it was a lie.

He was lying to himself, he had harmed John Watson the day of the fall but he didn’t want to admit it, not to himself and not to a stranger.

“Yes.” the man responded, an even bigger smile in his face as he bent down slightly so that he could look at Sherlock from the same height.

“Yes, you did Sherlock.” he said in a low deliberate voice.

Sherlock released something akin to a growl as he permitted the man to place his face directly in front of him, he could feel his ghostly breath upon his face and he absolutely despised it.

He narrowed his eyes at the man before him and waited for him to say something else, but the man said nothing more.

Sherrinford gave him one last glare before quickly twisting away in a dramatic flare and starting to walk away slowly.

“You know Mr Holmes,” he said as he kept walking. “For being man of logic you’ve permitted your brain to be clouded by emotion quite a lot.”

Sherrinford shook his head cynically and slightly turned his head to look at Sherlock, his hands posed upon his hips and a smirk upon his lips.

“That’s the reason you can’t deduce me right now.” Sherrinford said happily as he completely turned around.

“Because you got affiliated to the wrong person.” Sherrinford then snapped the fingers from his right hand in one quick dramatic motion, the sound itself was quite loud but Sherlock payed it the least attention as he turned around at the sound of a sharp thud.

He placed his eyes on the place where John should be but there was nothing.

The cage had simply disappeared without him taking notice of it.

He turned around abruptly and started searching the room with his eyes frantically.

_John. John. Where’s John? He was right there! John. John. John._

He knew that he must have been looking quite anxious, what with his eyes searching frantically, rubbing his hands against one another in a quick pace and doing a horrible job at maintaining his balance.

He turned around in a dramatic flare and glowered at the man before him with sharp eyes, and stopped dead on his next move which was to approach him.

The man had John.

_The man was holding John._

He narrowed his eyes, his lips in a tight line and his neck looking prideful so that he could look at his complete height.

Like a warrior preparing for battle.

“See, by going away,” Sherrinford started “You practically gave dear John Watson to me.”

Sherrinford then shifted so that he was carrying John’s limp body as if he were a bride.

“Because you see, this one’s mine now.”

Sherlock glowered at the man and attempted to step forward but it seemed as if he were literally glued to the floor, he felt pain flow through him as the realization that he couldn’t move one single muscle hit him.

Hell.

He heard Sherrinford laugh in the distance and scowled at the fact that the only thing he could do was glare at the man that had John.

Sherrinford was looking at him with a smug expression as he took John's face with one hand.

“He’s such a pretty thing, John...an angel.” Sherrinford said as he looked deep into John’s sleeping face.

“I found him first you know, but then he got shot before I could take him with me and I had to go all the way to London and by the time I got there he was already with you.” Sherrinford expression changed to a frown.

“You seem like someone who simply takes whatever he wants.” Sherlock then said, finding that albeit not being capable of moving he could in fact talk.

“So why didn't you just take him?” Sherlock asked curiously.

Sherrinford shot him a glare before going back to look at John.

“It doesn't matter.” Sherrinford responded.

Sherlock felt that he would be hearing that response quite often if he asked anything else.

Then just like that the conversation seemed to be over as silence and immobility both made themselves into gigantic milestones for their conversation.

Sherlock couldn't think about anything, it was tiring and horrible, he wanted to deduce the man, he wanted to look around, move and find a way to save John but every time he tried to think in anything that wasn’t the situation right in front of him his head would start pounding and he would feel as if his skull was on fire.

It was impossible for him to think and it was horrible.

Sherrinford was glancing at him with a small smirk on his face, John in his hands and not in Sherlock’s as he should be.

Sherrinford sighed.

“Well, this is about it, Sherlock.” Sherrinford said slowly as he caressed John’s remaining wing.

Sherlock attempted to move towards Sherrinford, he wanted to stop the movement and stop the small actions that told him that Sherrinford was in fact about to retreat but his feet were literally immobile.

He saw John’s still sleeping figure flinch slightly as Sherrinford stroked the remaining wing.

“Stop.” He whispered as his voice didn’t permit him to shout making the noise from his mouth come out hoarse and low.

“Well, this one, Mr Holmes, sadly is not mine.”  Sherrinford caressed John’s wing once more, slowly and almost delicately before ripping it out in one swift and sharp movement.

Sherlock winced at the shout given by John at that moment, he had never heard anything like it coming from John’s mouth before, not even when the other wing had been ripped, it was as if all the pain John had ever received was reduced to that one scream in that one precise moment.

Sherrinford then looked at the wing one simple time before throwing it at Sherlock's feet.

“That one’s yours.” he said calmly as he started retreating slowly, his eyes still on Sherlock, John still in his hands as Sherlock gagged at the stench of blood entering his nose like venom and as the sight of John bloody and dying pierced into his mind to stay.

“No.” Sherlock whispered as his legs finally gave up and he fell to the ground, he felt tears trying to fall through his eyes but he didn’t allow it, not while the enemy was still in the room.

“Oh, stop it Sherlock, the denial thing is getting really dull. I thought you hated dull.” Sherrinford whined as he stopped for a minute and smirked at Sherlock.

“No. You ripped it off.” Sherlock said maniacally. “You. Not me.” he repeated mostly to himself than Sherrinford.

“That is John’s Watson's essence, you tore it down, It is your wing, you took it.” Sherrinford said with finally .

Sherlock stared at the white wing at his feet, his eyes wide and maniacal and his hands in his hair, tugging violently in hopes of making his head just start working.

No. No. He did not do this.

This….it wasn't what he wanted.

He didn't do it.

“I didn’t do it!” He shouted at Sherrinford, his eyes close with the intensity of his resolve, no, he hadn’t done that John Watson, it simply wasn’t possible, he got up from his place with energy he did not know he had and attempted to move towards Sherrinford but stopped abruptly when he noticed that he was no longer there.

Sherrinford had disappeared as if thin air.

With John.

_Sherrinford had John._

Sherlock remained numb in his place, he couldn't do anything, there wasn't anything left to do.

He couldn't get out of the room and Sherrinford could be anywhere.

He slowly turned around and let himself drop on his knees in front of John’s left wing.

“John.” He whispered as he put the wing in his hands and buried his face in the soft feathers.

“John.” Tears were running through his cheeks now, dampening the soft feathers, he had not permitted himself to cry since he had left London, not really, he didn’t permit himself to cry like he knew he wanted to.

He felt the tears run through his cheeks and into the feathers, dirtying them with their saltiness.

“I am so sorry John.” He said before darkness enveloped him, he no longer had energy, he had no purpose or reason.

He let sleep and dark void take him away into the world of the living.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock woke up in a strangled scream yet opened his eyes slowly as if scared that when opening them what he would see would not be his hotel room but the dark room he had hoped had been part of a dream.

He felt relief flow through him as light pierced his eyelids and smiled just slightly at the room before him, never had he been more glad than that day to wake up in a place that was not 221B, he could taste the small remains of salty tears that had once passed through his lips as he had cried in his dream, he closed his eyes and willed himself to remember what was fiction and what was real.

He had not seen John Watson today.

He had not ripped any of John’s wings primarily because John had no wings.

He had not met a man named Sherrinford today either, nor did that man happen to look like him.

It was a dream.

All a dream.

Nothing was real besides the fact that his mind was starting to act as a traitor towards him.

He willed himself to get up and off the bed in which he had slept, he didn't even have the sheet on top of him.

He couldn't remember many instances of simply falling asleep out of tiredness but he let it go in hopes of for once in his life accepting something as normal and letting it go as nothing but a “tipsy” but when he was actually about to get up he stopped abruptly for there, just there, they were everywhere, on the sides of his bed, below the sheets, on top of his pillow were small white soft feathers covered in damp salty tears.

Feathers that shouldn't exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This really didn't end up how I wanted but i am kind of pleased with it anyways, I used phrases that I actually kind of like and I think I did pretty good.  
> Reviews are very much accepted and appreciated.  
> There is so much symbolic Bullshit in this though (it will in fact make more sense later on).  
> Thanks for reading!  
> Cookies to anyone who can guess correctly what the first shadow that appeared in Sherlock's dream is supposed to represent! (and to whomever guesses who the "two familiar shadows." are)


	4. Alive.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets his captor face to face and dwells upon the fact that he is no longer in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry.  
> This chapter is, sadly, mostly filling and took me so long but I just, it's so hard for me to actually get motivated to do anything, I already know how I want this whole thing to go but, yeah, there has to be some plot so yeah.  
> Sorry.

When John awoke, something that he wasn't expecting to do at all, he was no longer surrounded by darkness or feeling the roughness of a hard floor against his back, instead he was in a dimly lit room painted in blue undertones and he was resting comfortably in a small  bed, the soft duvet covering his naked torso, he also noticed that his earlier injuries were mostly bandaged.

He was completely covered in tight bandages, he had not noticed that his body had attained so much damage neither did he feel so much pain, there were bandages around his torso and arms crawling all the way towards his legs and feet, he noticed though that none of them were actually restricting his mobility.

_It was real then_ , was John’s first thought as he attempted to sit on the bed, which surprisingly and considering his injuries, he was capable of doing quite easily, groaning only twice in the process.

_Where am I?_ He found himself asking once more in the same day.

Well, he thinks it’s the same day but he doesn't actually know how much time has passed since the incident in the dark room, he doesn't even know how much time has passed since he was in Baker street or how much time he’s been sleeping.

The loss of time makes him anxious but he wills down the vile of fear that he knows is filling him from his arms to his chest and exhales loudly, he can almost feel his hand trembling but he ignores it.

He feels so tired, so awfully tired and he just wants to go back home, to Baker Street, to _Sherlock_ but he knows that the odds of either of those happening were incredibly low at the moment.

He sighed once again and let his head rest against the headboard of the bed.

If he could only figure out where he was or why he was there, he just wanted to know something, anything, he wanted to not be the completely oblivious idiot that knew nothing and was never able to know anything for just one time.

_Just one time_ , that’s all he wanted at the moment.

He stared with no real focus at the wall that somehow seemed so far away in that small room.

In a way the room seemed very small, small enough that it was suffocating rather than comfortable, small enough that it felt like the walls could start closing around him,  yet it also seemed large, large enough for him to hide in it’s smaller corners and dark shadows.

He felt like kicking down the door and running away or crawling out the small window without taking in consideration what the fall could do to him.

But he did neither of those things, substituting the possible escape for a rest and staring at the far away wall.

Everything was so fuzzy inside his head and he could barely contemplate any thoughts without his head pounding against his skull as if it were attempting to escape the dull existence it lived inside his skull.

He groaned quietly and looked at the door.

The door was a dirty white, it had dark marks (which were probably dirt gathered over the years) in its bottom part and wood carvings that were probably once very beautiful but were now jagged and old.

The door itself spoke millions of the house he was in which to make it short and put into his own words was old as fuck.

He breathed in heavily and rolled to his side letting his head rest softly against the pillow below his head.

_God fucking dammit_ , he thought as pain ripped through his body like a million electrodes pressing into his skin.

He could hear faint steps coming from outside the room but the haze of being in pain barely let him contemplate the fact that someone else was in the house.

The dirty white old door opened softly and in came the man that had tormented him not long ago.

John shot daggers at the man with the most menacing expression he could muster while laying on his side, bandaged and in pain.

His arms had automatically gone to his stomach that had apparently decided to ache now that it had remembered its former attacker, it was as if the simple sight of the man brought him the pain of being kicked once more.

“I’m glad you’re awake.” The man said softly, his voice low and barely above a whisper, almost as if asking for forgiveness but no, John knew there was no regret in that voice.

John didn't respond and the man only sighed in return before stalking towards the bed slowly, his steps were deliberate and controlled.

John immediately tensed at the action and attempted to move away from the man but was somehow rooted to his place at the same time.

“No. Please don’t do that.” Sherrinford said slowly, his voice full of pity.

John stopped squirming and attempted to keep the few specks of dignity that he had left.

“Good boy.” Sherrinford said slowly, a small smile appearing at his lips that made John shiver unconsciously.

He glared at the man solemnly and instinctively retreated as far as he could from his place without actually moving his legs, which in turn made him straighten his back and tighten his jaw, making him appear taller than he really was.

He was hoping to intimidate the man but instead he heard a small squeal of delight come from the man in question.

It was a sound John was hoping he wouldn't have to hear ever again.

“Ah...My apologies.” Sherrinford replied at the look of confusion in John’s face.

“It’s just…I've seen you do that so many times before from far away…never like this…” Sherrinford mumbled, waving his hand dismissively towards John.

“Much less have I been the cause of it or seen it up close it’s so…it’s just…it’s amazing.”

John thought that maybe those words had been uttered in the way of a praise but all he could really do was stare at the man in confusion and in preparation to flee or fight were it needed in the future.

He doubted he would be capable of managing either with success, but he had not gone through five years (He would later say three, hiding his secrets from the eyes of men) of war to give up easily without knowing the real threat of the enemy, which to be realistic and taking in consideration earlier conflict was probably fatalistic, but he cared very little for the menace of the enemy.

Death was something that simply couldn't bother him anymore, not after he had feared it for so many years, not after he had forgotten its existence entirely and not today.

Definitely not today.

“What do you want?” he asked his voice gruff and hostile.

“Not much really,” Sherrinford responded immediately “I'm just here to see if you want to make a deal.”

“If you’re looking for money, you might as well kill me now.” John responded glaring at the man, he knew quite clearly that this was not about money, or at least  it couldn't just be about money, not with the torture he had been inflicted before.  
This person knew him and wanted something from him.

No, it was not about money it was about personal matters.

What matters John could not fathom to even think about.

“Oh no Johnny, you know perfectly I don’t want money.” he responded quietly.

“This deal is different,  it might be more convenient to myself than you, but you know how these things are,”  Sherrinford then looked at John with a small smile that John did not return.

“Only one party can get what it truly wants.”

“And what do you want?” John asked again wanting to get to the point quickly.

He didn't care what the man wanted or why he wanted it much less why he thought John could give it to him but he would not in all of his lifetime help or submit to the man above him.

Sherrinford smiled wider and pressed one of his hands on the top of John’s bed.

_When had he gotten there?_ John had not noticed the man creeping up on him like that, at one point he had been close to the door barely in the room and now the man was practically standing next to him.

_Must be drugs, yeah, that must be it they must have drugged me and that’s why I saw all those things_ thought John as he cautiously looked up at the man as he tried to hide his curiosity and confusion in a mask of indifference.

There was silence for a few minutes as Sherrinford seemed to review the idea in his head.

“You.”

The word echoed in the room and it wasn't anything like in those romantic novels where the protagonist would tell the love interest that they needn't anything in the world besides them or how the protagonist would share the most immense love confession in the world.

No, it was cold, possessive, low and made Johns spine shiver tremendously in fear for the first time since he had awoken.

“I’m not an object.” John responded silently, removing his eyes from the intense gaze of the eyes that looked like Sherlock’s but weren't Sherlock’s.

Sherrinford hummed and responded “But aren't you? I mean you don’t do anything, you just stay home and grieve, you barely eat or move at all, unmovable, almost like furniture.”

John glared at the man as he felt the bed dip in the tale tell signs that Sherrinford had sat next to him.

“You might as well be a doll with no strings.”

Sherrinford was facing him now as he spoke, his face at the same height as John.

Both men stared at each other with completely different emotions playing in their faces, Sherrinford was staring with admiration and amusement while that John glared with hate and confusion.

“I am not a doll.” John said finally. “I am a human being and I will belong to no one, much less you.”

Sherrinford hummed for a moment and closed his eyes.

“Besides,” John said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why would you even want me? I no longer have an affiliation with Sherlock Holmes, he’s dead.” Sherrinford opened his eyes quickly at the mention of Sherlock’s name and stared at the wall silently.

“I have no value.” John whispered, he felt desperation claw at him from his insides and kept silent in fear that he would start crying, he would not be weak in front of the enemy.

“John,” Sherrinford said, his voice full of pity and rage. “Don’t you dare say that.”

John glared at him.

Couldn't people just grasp that? He didn't care if the rest of humanity ignored it, he knew that he was nothing now but a shell, when he had been in Afghanistan he had been full, when he had been a doctor he had been in the core of his life, when he was with Sherlock he had been complete but now, with no Sherlock or career he felt like nothing.

He was nothing and he didn't care, he could accept it, what he hated was that the rest of the world couldn't accept it and kept giving him pity.

He didn't need it and he didn't want it, the only thing he ever felt when people gave him those stupid lecture about how he should get over Sherlock’s death and how he shouldn't feel so reliant on him only served to make him angry.

He knew that living his life like that, dependent of the man who no longer lived upon earth was not healthy and that it only had one way out but he just couldn't bring himself to care anymore.

He had tried to be the strong willed person he had always been but it was too complicated, he had fought too many times before.

He was too tired to fight now.

He felt Sherrinford’s glare on him and he could feel the man looming above him  but he did not move or flinch.

Fuck it, he thought, if I’m going to die then let it be so.

He would end his life like he had lived throughout it, like a brave soldier.

“No.” Sherrinford said above him and his voice made John shiver, it was so deep and dark now, so much more than before, it made everything rumble and come to a horrified stop.

“No, you can't do that John.” Sherrinford said, his voice sounded sad but his eyes looked like fire storms and his movements were deliberately slow yet somehow angry.

“I'm quite sorry but you won’t be dying anytime soon.” Sherrinford said slowly his voice still deep and pronounced as he looked swiftly at John.

“Soon you won’t even remember him.”

For a frightful moment Sherrinford seemed to be in complete control, looming over John, his hands on either side of John’s head and their faces so close together that John feared the man might kiss him forcefully.

Sherrinford’s eyes were full of rage and pity, horrible, horrible pity John had been attempting to ignore for so long now.

Sherrinford was so close now, so close John could feel his breath on his face, he was sure that Sherrinford would kiss him, that he would close that small distance between them and press their lips together, no, he didn't want that by no one but Sherlock, he feared that the man would force himself on him somehow but then as if time was irrelevant Sherrinford stood up from his spot and started to walk towards the door leaving a confused John staring at his back.

“Soon.” he called back as he walked away slowly, it felt like a threat but John ignored it in order to rest now that Sherrinford had left he felt so tired again.

Sherrinford stopped as he walked out of the room, looked at John for a few moments before sighed and left the room as unexpectedly as he had entered it.

John breathed in relief as he felt the other man's presence leave the room.

He didn't know what the man meant with soon or what he had attempted to do, well, _whatever he had attempted to do when he was so close to him._

John lay there in the comfortable bed for a few minutes staring at the nothingness of the room.

It was such a strange room, it looked big but it felt small, there was nothing but the bed, a small desk at its side and a small window to the left, that and nothing more, there was also a small door to his right that John was sure must lead to a bathroom.

He went to the window to see if he could somehow identify where he was, but there was nothing, no buildings, no houses, it was all desert.

It reminded him so much of Afghanistan, he almost felt like he should be standing in a parade’s rest or as if he should be running away.

It was as if something from his nightmares had just randomly decided to appear before him and he could feel his throat closing up and air leaving his lungs too quickly and no air entering, it was horrifying.

Where the hell was he?

Why was he in the middle of the bloody desert?

He felt himself spiraling into a panic attack so he decided to close the deep blue curtains, as if the image would simply disappear if he covered it up, he returned to the bed and sat idly almost numb.

God, he was so tired and so very bored, there was nothing to do in that room.

No books or a television, nothing to write in, not even a painting or a poster that he could look at, the room was empty except for the bed and the small drawer, he opened the drawer hoping to entertain himself but there was nothing there, it was empty.

During the totality of the day he found himself having large amount of time to himself to question the simple existence of the room he was in, what’s the use of a drawer if its empty? Why even put it there?

He had gone to the bathroom a few times but it too was empty, it was completely white and had a few lines of blue here and there, exactly like the room he was inhibiting.

The bathroom contained a small shower, a sickeningly white toilet, a small mirror and a sink, nothing more, there were a few basic items in the bathroom, toothbrush and toothpaste, nothing out of the ordinary, also there was nothing he could harm himself with.

_No way of escaping through death then_ , he had thought idly when the realization that it was done intentionally hit him.

He didn't know what hour it was as there was no clock in the room and the sun never seemed to go down, there was as much light coming in through the window as there had been when he had first awoken in the room, he guessed that it didn't really matter, after all there didn't seem to be a valid way to escape.

He couldn't escape through the window, as he was in a third floor building so jumping out simply wasn't in the equation, he couldn't open the door as it was locked and there was no way of escape through the bathroom, and even if he did manage to escape the room there was no way he could just run off, there was nothing out there, he was in the middle of the desert, the heat and the dehydration would kill him before he was even remotely close to anywhere.

One day and he was already running out of ideas and hope.

_If only Sherlock was here_ , he thought momentarily but immediately he frowned upon the idea, no, no, he could get himself out of this, _think Watson, stop being so pathetic, there has to be a way out._

 He couldn't even look through the window without feeling dizzy and his reflection on the bathroom mirror looked back up at him with terrible tired eyes and the bed only made him feel sluggish and tired.

One day and he had already looked upon the totality of his “domain” and was already loosing ambition, there was nothing to do and nothing to see, nothing to be a part of and nobody to talk with and it was still sunny.

Why was the sun still up? John just knew that too many hours had passed already for it to still be up on the sky but it was there as still and existing as ever but it felt as if it wasn't allowed to be there, as if its existing was unneeded at the moment, unwanted, as if it just wanted supposed to be there but made its intrusion clear anyways.

He went to the bed and stared at the wall without really thinking about anything.

_Braindead_ , he thought as his mind wandered into nothing, it was as if the image of a blank background was implanted in his head and nothing could be created upon his dry imagination.

Suddenly, as he still stared at the wall, a faint buzzing sound started infiltrating the room.

He didn't dare move, as he was scared that if he moved the faint noise that promised some type of entertainment were to disappear.

He went rigid and waited.

A few minutes passed, the sound still making it's presence and enveloping the room slowly.

His breathing was quick and rough as he waited patiently, the slow buzzing noise seemed to get closer, it sounded like a broken radio being adjusted, he could hear static and every now and then a low humming voice would accompany the buzzing for a few moments before it disappeared, then the process would repeat itself.

The sound went off like that for what John thought was at least half an hour before finally, just finally, the soft murmurs started forming coherent words that he could transcribe into words.

“A friendly desert community where the sun is hot,” John heard in a deep baritone voice that made him remember the day he had received that damn letter that made him end up in this devil’s hole, although he did agree upon its statement, this place was bloody hot.

The voice continued regardless of John’s interior drawl on its existence.

“The moon is beautiful,” John couldn't quite deny nor agree, seeing as _the bloody sun was still upon the sky somehow_.

“And mysterious lights pass overhead while we pretend to sleep.”

John paused for a minute in his frantic search for responding to some kind of contact with the outside and retained those few words in his mind, _mysterious lights pass overhead…while we pretend to sleep…._

Well, that was...odd.

He continued to listen this time a little bit more cautiously but still he could feel his pulse rise and the blood in his veins rise at the idea of some type of excitement as sick as it may be.

“Welcome to Night Vale.”

The voice was definitive, John thought that it had to be a prank, some kind of sick joke the man that had kidnapped him was playing with him to drive him mad.

“Hello, listeners.” came the smooth voice of the radio taking away his attention from the thoughts of mad men to distract him with its calming voice.

John listened to the man’s strange broadcasts for much longer than he thought possible, it was as if the voice had engulfed him and taken him far away into a void of many impossible things.

He re-winded the mans warnings and the places that he had mentioned in his head.

The man had mentioned many strange places during his broadcast, many extraordinary people and outstanding prohibitions, he didn't understand at all.

Why was the broadcast speaking of Night Vale? Was it supposed to be of the place he was in now or was it just taking in the signal? Why was it even on now? Was Sherrinford downstairs now listening to it?  
No, he simply couldn't feel anyone else’s presence in the house he was in, he felt alone somehow, the house had gone quiet once the broadcast had finished.

He could not hear any noises coming from downstairs so he took it as the proof he needed to know he was completely alone.

There was only one window in his room but he doubted that there was anything more than a large extension of sand towards anywhere he would to move, so where was this Night Vale?

John took it as hope, if Sherrinford was in fact using a radio downstairs and if John was right in taking in the friction and distinctive sounds of downstairs it _was_ a radio, then that place had to be close.

_He could escape to it, he had an escape plan now._

He felt hope blossom in his chest like poison and drowned it immediately, he had hope, that was good but he could not allow it to blind his senses.

As there was nothing much to do John decided to take a nap and allow his mind some much deserved rest.

After Sherlock had died he hadn't allowed himself a good night rest but if he wanted to even start planning to escape then he had to sleep a few hours and recover energy.

He laid himself below the soft duvet of the blue bed and allowed his head to wander, he hoped that he wouldn't dream of Afghanistan or falling men, he wanted his mind to think of hope and odd towns with prohibited sites.

With that in mind he allowed his head to drift and slowly, very slowly submerged to his tired head’s needs and finally slept.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the next chapter will take less time in making and everything, I do after all have most of it written.  
> So again, sorry, reviews are greatly appreciated and ignore all the comas, I can't make myself write with less use of comas, I just love comas, sorry.  
> Thanks to everyone who left kudos and reviewed.  
> Oh, and special thanks to those who explained what a beta was to me!

**Author's Note:**

> So...what do you think?  
> "It's too short"  
> "Yes, yes I know, I'll make longer ones, I promise, I just need to get used to stupid Google Docs.  
> Oh and BTW, Could someone explain to me what a Beta is? I have my suspitions but I dont really know.  
> Next chapter is in John's and Sherlocks POV.  
> I hope you liked it. bye bye...


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